


Deterioration

by Khlois



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Insanity, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, The Uchiha Clan's A+ Childraising
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khlois/pseuds/Khlois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uchiha Obito's spiral into madness began with the Kannabi Bridge mission. AU, canon divergence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Empty Heart

**Author's Note:**

> A what-if AU where Rin dies at Kannabi instead of Obito, and everything goes spectacularly wrong.  
> This isn't the jounin-AU of canon-Obito's imaginations before his kind-of-hard-to-understand-or-empathize redemption. Reality sucks. (And so does my writing, but hopefully you won't find it too bad.)

 

The Kannabi Bridge mission was a success.

A success, except they returned one member short. But casualties are a common thing in times of war, and everyone has lost at least one person close to their hearts. All memorial services are to be held after the war. Now is not the time for grief.

For now, the most important goal of the people is to ensure Konoha’s victory. Iwa’s supply route is mostly blocked without Kannabi Bridge, so she can afford to ease up, just a little. But there’s still a long way to go until the war ends.

They are dismissed with tired nods and pats on the back. It’s hard to say if it’s a good thing no one shows any sympathy, be it real or made up.

 

-

 

For the first time in nearly eight years, Uchiha Obito is led into the grandest building on the Uchiha district – the Main Compound. It is home to the Clan Head, the Head’s family, and some of the Elders. Obito knows because he was raised in this building by an Uchiha Elder until the age of five. Then they kicked him out, relocating him to a small house at the edges of the Uchiha district.

He was abandoned because of his incompetence; a few days later he met Rin.

Now he comes back from the mission without Rin, sporting a set of well-developed Sharingan, and the Clan welcomes him with open arms, as welcoming as the Uchiha can ever be.

The world has a strange way of keeping its balance. But if he were ever given the choice, he would choose to keep things the way they once were. It isn’t worth it.

It never was.

 

-

 

When Rin died, Obito didn’t cry. It was strange, because he didn’t even feel anything but a cold resigned acceptance. Nothing else but that, and a dull numbness that filled his head like cotton.

He could have stayed like that, still and unmoving, kneeling at her side. He would have stayed like that, beyond caring even when the second rockslide swallowed up Rin’s cold body and buried him alive.

But Kakashi grabbed his wrist and dragged him away, and Obito watched as Rin disappeared into the gaping jaws of the earth. He didn’t turn away until the dust cleared and nothing remained but a cold, unforgiving grave. The whole time it took for them to run to the bridge, Kakashi’s fingers dug into his wrist in a vicelike grip.

At the meeting point, Minato sensei seemed to understand what happened the moment he set eyes on them. He asked no questions and demanded no explanations. He only looked into Obito’s eyes with a thoughtful kind of concern, and smoothly proceeded on with the mission.

Compared to the previous disaster, the sight of the burning, collapsing bridge was almost anticlimactic.

 

-

 

Obito wakes up.

An Elder is waiting for him. It takes a moment for Obito to remember his name.

“Matou-sama.” He pauses. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

The formal words are awkward in his mouth, like they don’t belong there. Actually, they don’t. Obito hasn’t spoken in such a stiff way for the last eight years. But he knows that the man standing in front of him won’t even acknowledge him if he doesn’t watch his mouth.

After all, Uchiha Matou was famous for being uncomfortably strict. He was the one to hammer clan customs and shinobi rules into Obito’s head during his early childhood. He was _also_ the one to personally kick out Obito from the Main Compound when he didn’t live up to expectations.

Matou surveys the room, his face hard with thinly veiled distaste. Somehow he always seemed to dislike Obito, even though Obito is sure he never directly offended the man.

“The Elders are waiting for you. Get dressed, quickly, and follow me.” Matou walks out of the room to wait outside, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Obito stares numbly at the closed door, and slowly drags himself out of bed. He goes into the bathroom to get himself even remotely presentable, but gives up as soon as he sees the magnificent dark circles under his eyes. He gets dressed in Uchiha formal robes, since they’re the only clothes in the closet and he can’t seem to find any of his own garments anywhere in the room.

Two days of nothing, and suddenly a summons?

He has a dull, resigned heaviness in his stomach. Whatever this is, it will end badly.

 

-

 

The Council room is packed full of Elders when Obito is hurriedly ushered inside. Not to mention the looming figure of Uchiha Fugaku, the _Clan Head_ , at the head seat. Just a few weeks prior, Obito would have been rooted to the spot with heart-stopping anxiety. Right now he feels too numb and hollow to register any kind of fear. Maybe it’s a good thing, because everyone in the room stops talking when he comes in. They turn to stare at him with eyes alight with anticipation, like he’s the most interesting thing they’ve ever seen.

Elder Matou doesn’t take a seat. Instead, he stands behind Obito and speaks in a low voice.

“Activate your Sharingan.”

Obito complies without much thought, and his vision sharpens into crystal clarity. One Elder leans forward to look more closely. Obito feels like an animal on display. There is a brief stir of uneasiness in his mind before it gets swallowed up by the hollow numbness again.

“A little more chakra to your eyes, boy.” Matou sounds borderline impatient, and an annoyed Matou is never a good sign. So Obito pushes more chakra to his eyes.

The world bursts into painful clarity, and he is thrown backwards into time.

 

-

 

Rin’s eyes were wide and hazy, and her lips were turning blue. Kakashi was somewhere out of sight, pushing against the boulder with all his might. Obito couldn’t do anything but sit at Rin’s side, his sluggish mind trying to process the situation.

Rin’s breath came in painful wheezy gasps, and she clutched Obito’s hand like a lifeline as blood dribbled out of her mouth.

Obito swallowed, his mouth dry, and began to babble about inane things, comforting words he had seen mothers tell their own children on the streets.

The boulder didn’t budge, and Rin shuddered. She looked very small like this, nearly everything save her head and arms hidden from sight. Obito didn’t want to think of the state of her body under the boulder.

“Obito…” Her small voice seemed to cut through his blabber like a knife. “I… can’t see.”

Back at the Academy, they told the children that sight would be one of the first things to go when they were dying. Only hearing would remain until the end. So Obito spoke up, even when his throat felt too tight.

“It’s alright. I’m here. See, we’ll get you out in no time.”

Rin’s fingers tightened around his hand until he couldn’t feel his fingertips. “I… Don’t leave me.” Her voice was small and frightened. Her eyes rolled sightlessly, trying to catch a glimpse of anything.

“I won’t. I promise.”

After that, Obito kept on rambling, keeping up a stream of soothing words without really registering what he was saying. Meaningless lies and chatter, like what they would do when they got back to Konoha, how everyone would be glad to see them, the jutsu he wanted to try. Eventually he ran out of things to talk about, and he was repeating himself, but he didn’t want to stop and let Rin think that he had gone and abandoned her.

And Kakashi came back, feverish with renewed tension and desperation. “We need to move away,” he said, “A second rockslide is coming.”

But Obito couldn’t leave Rin alone in the dark, to suffocate slowly under a ton of rocks. He stubbornly held his position, kneeling beside Rin, and Kakashi shook him, hard. There was a distant rumble, and Kakashi darted around the boulder to scan the surroundings, lips pulling back in a soundless, panicked snarl.

“We should _go_!”

Rin flinched, and Obito tried to calm her down with no visible success.

He had to go. But he couldn’t leave her alone. He would be breaking his promise. He couldn’t leave her to die alone in the dark, cold and terrified.

In the end, his hand seemed to act on its own, and it felt like he was watching from a distance, floating outside his own body. The kunai slipped smoothly into Rin’s throat, and for a moment the light returned to her eyes: they met his own eyes dead on, flashing with a shard of emotion Obito couldn’t identify.

Then the moment passed, and Rin let out a long, ragged breath, blood gurgling out of her mouth and throat, flowing onto his hands.

Obito didn’t cry, when Rin died. He only hoped it had been painless.

 

-

 

When Obito slams back to reality, he is curled up on the floor, hands clamped over his eyes. Something trickles down his cheeks, slick and hot, thicker than tears. A high, tortured scream pierces his ears; in the background there are muffled shouts, like an argument is going on. His throat feels raw and sore.

Oh. Maybe he’s the one screaming.

He bites down, his teeth clashing together, and the scream dwindles into a muffled whine. Everything is too bright, too painful, and something claws and writhes inside his ribs like a caged animal. He tries to reach for the numbness again, because that hollow sensation is infinitely better than this agony, but he doesn’t remember how to do that anymore.

Someone knocks him out with a sharp impact from behind, and Obito embraces the darkness with crushing relief.

 

-

 

He comes to in a dark room, freshly washed and neatly clothed. He sits up, wincing slightly at the cramping muscles in his back. It’s the same room he stayed in for two days, before the summons came.

The meeting ended in a disaster. Would they throw him out again?

The thought makes him agitated, and Obito sweeps his gaze around the room. It’s mostly bare except for the luxurious furniture and traditional decorations. Only the best for the Uchiha. Obito feels awkwardly out of place.

Something – no, someone – catches his eye in his peripheral vision, and he turns. Obito freezes as she comes into focus. His breath stops in his throat.

It’s Rin. She’s sitting against the wall, hugging her knees. When she senses his stare, she raises her head. Her sightless eyes are wide and staring, her lips are blue – and her throat is slit open in a wide red smile.

He can’t breathe.

Then the door swings open, letting in a flood of light. Obito squeezes his eyes shut in reflex; when he cracks them open, the girl is gone.

 

-

 

“The Elders have decided it would be for the best if you served on the front lines.” A sickening sort of finality underlies the words. It’s strange, though, that the Clan Head is the one delivering the words. Obito expected Matou to make a reappearance.

The man studies him, eyes thoughtful and lips pressed into a thin line. Obito stares back blankly. Maybe he is supposed to be honored?

Fugaku suddenly reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder. Obito suppresses a flinch with some difficulty.

“Survive,” the man says in a low voice. His eyes burn with a strange intensity and the hand on his shoulder feels so very heavy.

Even as he walks away, the word lingers in Obito’s mind.

_Survive._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First work!  
> Reviews are greatly appreciated. :D


	2. What Breeds Monsters

 

The Land of Fire is situated in the very center of the Elemental Nations. In peacetime this works as an advantage: the country is the hub of traffic where all cultures meet, and the economy prospers.

In a war, it means there are attacks coming from all directions. The battlefield is never silent.

 

-

 

Compared to other hidden villages, Konoha likes to project an image of benevolence. Young and green shinobi are usually kept away from the front lines, returning to the village to run low danger reconnaissance and courier missions. Sometimes even no-blood destruction missions, like Kannabi Bridge was supposed to be. The bloodbaths are reserved for more hardened chunin and jounin.

Obito doesn’t know how the clan managed to bend the rules to cart him off onto the battlefield, but it isn’t hard to see that he isn’t welcomed here. Everyone is at least a few years older than him; there are no familiar faces. The haunted eyes that follow him are critical, unfriendly.

He wants to cringe or duck, but he stubbornly suppresses his instincts. His chin stays up and his gaze is fixed ahead.

_Survive_ , the voice echoes in his head. It’s not even the kindest thing anyone ever told him. But Rin is gone (dead, dead, he killed her) and he’s afraid to face his team. Kakashi saw it happen. What would he think of Obito now? And when Kakashi tells Minato sensei –

Breathe. He has to breathe.

But he _killed_ Rin –

_Survive._ The command from the Clan Head is strong and heavy, demanding, nothing like the soft warm comforts of his team. It’s exactly what Obito needs now. He clings to the memory like a lifeline; it’s the only thing keeping him afloat in the chaos of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him.

At the moment he has nothing left but his clan. True, most of them hate his guts, but at least one person wants him back.

For now, it is enough of a reason to keep breathing. So he walks forward with as much dignity as he can muster, and ignores the ghostly figure of the girl in his peripheral vision.

 

-

 

In a way, Rin was his first kill.

Obito had always been so careful to incapacitate and not kill. Once he was even absurdly proud of it, that the enemies who faced him would live to see another day. But the Iwa nin he left behind had caused the cave-in, and the result was Rin ending up under a heap of boulders. Now he looks back and thinks _selfishness_ and not _mercy_. Or maybe the two things are one and the same. Either way, mercy has no place on the battlefield.

There is only one simple rule here: you kill, or you get killed.

After his first battle Obito’s legs buckle out underneath him. He crawls to the nearest ditch, a safe distance away from the corpses as he violently empties the contents of his stomach. He wretches until his muscles ache with convulsions and his throat burns with bile and acid.

( _Survive._ )

 

-

 

When a battle ends, the soldiers carry away the injured to the medics’ tent and examine the dead. Very few corpses end up in sealing scrolls, to be delivered to the village for further examination; war means a constant shortage of supplies. The rest of the bodies are burned on the spot before they rot.

It is one of the responsibilities of Katon users. Obito is no exception. He forms the series of familiar hand seals and breathes out a plume of fire. He watches the fire licking up the bodies, the flesh melting right off the bones, and what had once been living breathing people is reduced to a pile of ashes.

This is the reason why most graves in Konoha are empty, and this is the closest thing they get to a funeral.

He remembers that Rin couldn’t even have this, that she lies forgotten and rotting on foreign soil, abandoned by her comrades.

Breathe.

He wonders if she hates him for that.

( _Survive._ )

He breathes in a lungful of smoke and restrains the urge to cough.

 

-

 

It settles into a sort of routine: battles, burnings, trainings, eat when you can, sleep when you can.

The smell of blood and smoke and fire seeps into his flesh, the taste of ash lingers on his tongue. He doesn’t feel like he’s actually alive, but he isn’t really dead, not yet.

It’s enough for now. No one actually told him to live.

 

-

 

With every passing day, he feels his face settle into the gaunt mask not unlike everyone else around him. He doesn’t need to look into a mirror to know that his eyes have acquired that unsettling reptilian gaze, wide and haunted and unblinking.

So what if he’s suddenly decided that he can’t sleep without his weapons? A lot of shinobi love pointy objects, and the battlefield is full of surprises.

( _Survive._ )

Someday this is all going to end, and he will be able to go back.

Right?

 

-

 

With every passing day, the pale wraith of the little girl gets clearer and clearer. She appears more frequently, sliding into the edges of his vision as though daring him to turn and look.

Obito doesn’t look. He becomes very good at losing himself in white noise, staring into the distance. He refuses to entertain the notion that he might be going crazy.

He’s going to be _fine_ , except he’s not. (And he knows it.)

 

-

 

Soon he loses track of time. Day and night does not hold any importance on the front lines; they are shinobi, and nighttime ambushes are as frequent, if not more than day attacks.

What does matter is the roar in his ears as he cuts through his (the village’s) enemies, the frantic _thud-thud-thud_ of his heart. Every beat of his heart means one more second alive, one more enemy down, one step closer to home.

But when the adrenaline fades away and his muscles quiver like they’re going to give out any minute, the horrified faces of the dead flash behind his eyelids, and every step feels unbearably heavy, like the lives he’s taken are weighing him down.

And the dead come back to visit him in his dreams.

 

-

 

Rin’s ghost follows him into his newfound nightmares. The cave-in repeats endlessly; Rin stares up with accusing eyes as she bleeds out sluggishly onto his hands. In the dreams Kakashi never pulls him away, and he stays by Rin’s side as the rocks wash over them both. Dirt and damp soil fills his mouth, clogs his nose, and he drowns in the darkness, the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

It is penance, a curse bestowed on him by the thrice-damned Sharingan and its photographic memory. Sometimes it isn’t Rin, just another nameless shinobi he killed on the battlefield, all their faces frozen in muted terror. Every night he is buried alive with the people whose blood is on his hands, and every day he wakes to another bloodbath, mountains of corpses and rivers of blood. And ashes, ashes, ashes.

It is hard to say which is more exhausting to live through.

( _Survive._ )

He is tired.

 

-

 

The nightmares affect him poorly. Sleep deprivation is finally starting to take a toll on him. Only the adrenaline rush of the battle keeps him on his feet. His thoughts are choppy and sluggish.

There is so much blood. He can barely smell anything else over the sharp rusty scent that swirls in the air, and the red stands out painfully in his vision, practically eye-watering in the clarity of the Sharingan. There’s blood _everywhere_ , floating in the air, seeping into the soft mud, flowing in streams along the tracks in the ground.

A shuriken whizzes under his ear, lightly grazing the side of his neck. His wandering mind is immediately cleared of all stray thoughts, and he focuses on the man who threw the weapon.

Target, lunge, stab.

There is a wet, meaty _thunk_ as his kunai slams into the man’s heart, tearing straight through layers of cloth and skin and muscle. He can feel the dull fading beats of the man’s dying heart through the handle of his blade, resonating right up his arm into his head. His head throbs, a hollow ache starting behind his eyeballs. His eyes feel sandpaper-dry, scraping against his eyelids as he blinks. If only his eyes would tear up a little. But too late; he hasn’t cried since Kannabi Bridge, since Rin…

He narrowly misses a senbon aimed at his eye, and it pierces a hole in the soft cartilage in his ear, stopping about halfway through. It burns like a slap to his face. He pulls out the long needle with a slight wince, and dodges another that streaks a little too close to his jugular. He hopes the needles aren’t poisoned. His heart drums frantically in his ears, so _loud_ …

Breathe.

He has to focus.

When he spots his attacker through the crowds locked in battle, he lunges forward without a second thought and slams an open palm against a nose. It breaks on impact. The person flails and falls backwards, and Obito prepares to stab down, readjusting his grip on his blood-slick kunai –

\- and freezes, because that’s _Rin_ staring up at him with accusing eyes, blood dribbling down her face.

The adrenaline fades abruptly from his system, and he nearly staggers under the weight of his exhaustion. He blinks, eyes still painfully dry, and his mind struggles to make sense of the situation.

Ah. On second glance, the girl on the ground isn’t Rin. The features are startlingly similar, though. She’s young, too – she can’t be much older than himself. The other villages must be running out of manpower.

His arms are heavy; he feels so, so tired. Instead of delivering a death blow, as he should, Obito stomps down on her knee, feeling the bone shatter under his foot. She screams, high and thin, but she’ll live. He hopes she crawls away and saves herself. He doesn’t want to see her in the burnings.

He turns to face another shinobi whose sword is aimed for him – he must have taken Obito’s temporary shock as an opening – and a hand closes around his ankle. It yanks down, hard, and Obito starts to fall.

He realizes he will never get his balance back in time. The man grins savagely as his sword cuts a straight line towards his heart; Obito can only stare helplessly, the Sharingan recording every moment of his impending death.

He is going to die.

He is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s never even had a chance to live outside this goddamn war, and he’s going to die here, a sword through his heart and choking on his own blood.

He’ll end up as a pile of ashes at the end of the day, become nothing more than a name on cold stone, to be forgotten within the month.

_No_ , his mind silently screams, _please no._

And there is a miracle.

The enemy shinobi stumbles as he dodges a sudden strike from behind. The sword buries itself in Obito’s shoulder, misses his heart. The starburst of pain very nearly sends him reeling into unconsciousness, but this is a battlefield: death is swift in collecting the unguarded. He twists away, tearing the sword from the enemy’s grasp, and turns to deal with the person who grabbed his ankle, the person who very nearly sent him straight into death’s cold embrace.

Somehow he isn’t very surprised when he sees that it’s the girl he let live. There is a strange sting of betrayal, quickly swept away by a wave of fury. She is an enemy. She had no reason not to exploit a weakness when she saw it. There is no reason to feel betrayed.

Mercy is a selfishness.

You kill or get killed.

Hadn’t he already learned his lesson?

She scrambles away, her hands scrabbling on pebbles and soft mud, one bloody leg trailing uselessly behind her. It’s no use; Obito relied on his speed over his skills to survive until now. Even bleeding and exhausted, he can easily catch up with a wounded opponent.

She is sobbing, terrified, horror and disgust twisting her face into an ugly, deformed mask. She doesn’t look so much like Rin anymore. He crushes her throat and snaps her neck with his good hand.

He hates her, for forcing his hand. For not crawling away when he didn’t kill her. But mostly he hates himself, for being so weak, so weak that he can’t even manage to spare a person’s life properly, couldn’t save Rin, that he is so _weak_.

He doesn’t even remember why he’s fighting anymore, why he’s out here butchering people just like him every other day, why he’s fighting so hard. He’s so, so exhausted.

Obito sways and falls. Someone catches him just before he hits the ground.

 

-

 

“Awake at last? Come on, rise and shine.”

His eyelids are stuck closed, and he hurts all over. Obito groans and turns away – or tries to, before the ache in his shoulder makes him growl out loud. But he still feels more refreshed than he has in weeks.

“Now, stop that, or I’m not going to leave you any painkillers.”

Obito forces his eyes open and glares as best as he can in the estimated direction of the voice. His vision is a little blurry, so he blinks until everything comes back into focus.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now sit up, so you can take the pill.”

The man has an easygoing smile and shoulder-length hair the color of sand. His face looks vaguely familiar. Obito awkwardly tries to get up without jostling his wound, but fails miserably. The man offers a hand. Obito glares at it sullenly before accepting grudgingly.

“Thank you,” he tries, but all he gets is a voiceless rasp. He clears his throat loudly before trying again.

“No problem,” the man replies easily. He hands Obito a cup of water and some small white pills. “They sedated you after they pulled out that sword, but it must be wearing off about now.”

His throat hurts as he swallows, tipping his head back to get the water and pills down in one gulp. The feeling of pills sticking in his throat is unpleasant. He grimaces as he takes more gulps of water, trying to wash down the sensation. It’s just a little thing, inconsequential and small compared to the searing burn of the sword punching through his shoulder, and still he finds it annoying. How petty for someone who escaped death by a hair’s breadth.

“So, who’s Rin? Your girlfriend?”

Obito pauses. He can feel his face shutting down automatically.

“How do you know that name?”

The man looks a little contrite as he replies. “You talk in your sleep.”

“… She was my teammate.”

“Ah.”

He doesn’t comment on the past tense. Thankfully. But there is an awkward silence.

Obito sets the cup down. The man is polishing his sword, steel-bright and deadly sharp. There’s a whetstone beside him on the chair; he must have been sharpening it before. The smooth, almost lazy motion of his hands is near-hypnotizing, and Obito follows the movement with his eyes.

It takes his mind off more troubling things. Things like wars and blood and former teammates he killed with his own hands.

“Do you want to learn?”

Obito tears away his eyes from the man’s hands to meet his solemn gaze.

“…?”

“I can teach you the basics of sword fighting, if you want.”

Obito stares blankly for a moment and nods hesitantly. Maybe this is a sort of apology for bringing up a sensitive subject. Besides, he could use some real human company before he goes completely insane.

“Good. Just call me Kai.”

 

-

 

Somehow Kai becomes a sort of constant in Obito’s life. Something he can cling onto.

These days, the time before the front lines is a hazy blur, something akin to a faded lifetime that happened an eternity ago. It gets harder and harder to remember the faces of the people he once knew. Harder to remember what exactly he is fighting to go back to.

Sometimes, he thinks, maybe all of that was just a long pleasant dream. Maybe he has always, always been trapped in this living nightmare, killing, killing, killing.

But Kai is real. He is no dream, no illusion. He is a real, living, breathing human being who reached out to Obito first, and he’s the first person to ever do that after –

( - Rin.)

And he stays. It’s like a miracle.

Soon he has a new routine: battles, burnings, then sword-training with Kai, eating and sleeping in the sparse times between.

Even the nightmares recede ever so slightly, perhaps because he isn’t replaying every gruesome death in his mind after every battle, staring blankly into the distance.

Obito hopes it never ends. He takes as long as he dares to absorb the basic movements Kai shows him, and diligently showers him with questions he never bothered to ask a teacher before. Kai is painstakingly patient as he points out everything off about Obito’s stance, correcting and adjusting.

This goes on for a few weeks, and Obito progresses in sword fighting until he is about at the same level with Kai. It was to be expected; after all, Kai was nowhere near a master swordsman, just slightly over average. And the Sharingan is so damn good at memorizing new moves. Still, it’s soon, too soon.

Obito is half sure that the training sessions are going to end any day now. These precious snippets of time that helped him stay sane will be taken away, and he would be left alone again. He is afraid, and some unrealistic courses of action appear and vanish inside his head.

For example, he could pretend that he still needed more time and guidance to perfect some techniques… But the problem is that Kai’s not stupid. He’s seen Obito’s Sharingan and its speed in devouring new stances. Obito may as well be telling an outright lie.

So Obito waits, numb with dread, for the moment when Kai announces that it’s all over. He holds his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable blow.

But it never comes.

It’s very confusing, and he’s getting tired of waiting and waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t quite manage to convince himself that it’s for the best, but this suspense is almost worse than outright denial.

 

-

 

“Are you… not going to leave? Now that you’ve taught me everything?”

Kai looks surprised, then a little hurt. Obito immediately regrets asking the stupid question, but it’s no use crying over spilt milk. He wants to apologize, but his throat is tight, constricted. His whole body is frozen, waiting for any kind of answer, nearly vibrating from the tension.

“Well,” Kai looks down, “If you want to stop…” His voice trails off uncertainly.

“No,” Obito manages. He chokes out the word like it was stuck in his throat.

Kai snaps his head up, and his grin is wide and bright. “Well then, why do you ask?” He laughs, unquenchably cheerful. He ruffles Obito’s hair like he always did after he learned an especially tricky move. “We’ll keep on sparring together. Keep both our swords sharp, eh?”

Maybe this is what it feels like to have an older brother. Obito ducks his head, tears stinging his eyes for the first time after Kannabi. He doesn’t cry, but for the first time in a long while he feels like he might be okay, after he’s had enough time.

 

-

 

He should have known that nothing good lasts long.

Obito burns Kai’s cold body not even a week later.

 

-

 

The nightmares return with a vengeance.

Things slowly realign themselves back into that sluggish nightmare of blood and death and fire.

It’s like Kai never existed.

 

-

 

The wars breed monsters. It is the truth, tall and imposing and singular.

Some days he forgets himself in his rage, and he laughs as he burns a path of destruction through the battlefield. It’s the only time he feels remotely close to being alive, thoughts clouded by bloodlust and incandescent in his fury.

But he feels like shit afterwards, and even his own side shoots sidelong glances at him sometimes, wary of the madman within their ranks. He can’t help it, though – these days he doesn’t even know what he’s angry at, it just simmers under his skin like a trap waiting to be sprung.

He wakes up in the medics’ tent more and more frequently; apparently, he seems to entirely disregard all and any wounds that accumulate during his rampages. He doesn’t really mind. At least when they sedate him he gets some sleep without nightmares.

 

-

 

Somewhere along the way he gets a field promotion. He suspects it has more to do with keeping a potential threat away from the saner members of the front lines than his impressive displays of skill. As a jounin, he gets sent off away from the lines of defense as part of the independent attack squads.

All other squad members ignore him and he ignores them right back. It’s a working relationship, and Obito’s not very keen to make any changes. He knows they don’t like him much – haven’t liked him much ever since the clan carted him off to the front lines – and he’d rather not have a repeat performance of losing control in a futile attempt to mend any misunderstandings.

(There were a couple chunin being a little too discourteous as they gossiped within his earshot – _I almost feel sorry for that weirdo Kai, they stuck together for about a month and he doesn’t even blink an eye; that’s the Uchiha for you, all high and mighty bastards_ – and it led to Obito snapping and beating them within an inch of their lives. Everyone gives him a wide berth after that.)

 

-

 

Rin hovers close now, like a guardian spirit or an angel of death.

It doesn’t matter that she’s probably a hallucination. Not anymore, when she’s all he has left.

She hasn’t changed much since she died – most of her is crushed and bloody, and her throat is still slit open by a kunai wound, a smile bleeding red. Only her eyes are different, rotten and melted into viscous black tears that run out of hollow eye sockets. It doesn’t make him flinch anymore. He’s seen bodies in worse states. After all, she’s still Rin – she’ll always be beautiful to him no matter what.

After a mission, Rin smiles at him, serene and unaffected. He smiles back blandly, eyes only for her.

(His squad members glance at him nervously. He doesn’t notice.)

 

-

 

The missions escalate. Assassinations, confrontations, slaughter, attacking other countries’ lines of defense. Somehow he always makes out of them alive. Rinse and repeat. Following orders is easy.

An explosion takes out half his squad once. They are replaced with new members the very next day. He can never tell them apart, and he never bothers to learn their names.

 

 

-

The war gets worse before it gets better. There are more children than adults on the fields a month before the ceasefire. Not Konoha, though – they are not the largest shinobi village for nothing. But Kiri and Iwa are running out of live, active shinobi to send out to fight their battles, and it shows. The fields are littered with too-small bodies, about his age or younger.

They star in his dreams sometimes, begging for mercy. Some of them look resigned, eyes too old for their faces as he cuts them down like everyone else.

He takes care to meet their eyes when he kills them. Even if everyone forgets them, he knows they will be preserved in his memory with perfect clarity.

It’s the very least he can do.

 

-

 

Three weeks after the ceasefire, all five daimyo of the Elemental Nations sign the peace treaty. The soldiers are called back from the borders.

He is fifteen when the war ends.


	3. Open Wounds

 

He walks with hunched shoulders and head low, feet dragging slowly through the mud. The stench of iron is heavy in the air. The sky is murky gray, heavy with bloated storm clouds that block out the sun.

And there is the silence, silence so thick that it wraps around him like a wool blanket, suffocating him, broken only by the ragged sounds of his own breathing. The dead do not talk. The silence in their empty gazes presses down on his skin, warm and moist with rot and decay.

As he walks down the narrow trail the dead crowd along the path, reaching out with bony fingers that pass through him like mist. He doesn’t lift his head to look at them. His guilt weighs him down, dragging him earthwards like lead weight, cold and heavy in his veins. His eyes are fixed on the ground, the slow repetition of his feet. The mud is soft and wet, watered by the blood of the hundreds. Thousands.

The end is near.

As if in response to an unspoken command, he lifts his head slowly as he takes the last few steps to the end of the road. He drops down on his knees, like a prisoner awaiting execution, and looks up into the dark eyes of judgement.

Rin smiles benevolently down at him, a clashing dissonance with her eyes that bleed black tears. She reaches down and takes his face in her hands, gentle as she tilts his head back to look into his eyes.

She studies him carefully, as if looking into his very soul. He feels the mounting tension in the air, the soundless buzz of the crowd behind him, around him, of the dead that he felled during the war. He holds his breath; the silence is complete.

After an endless moment, Rin opens her mouth to sound her verdict.

 

-

 

And Obito wakes up.

 

-

 

His heart is pounding rapidly in his ears when his eyes snap open; he has a moment of panicked confusion as he takes in the dark ceiling. It takes him a while to come back to reality, taking deep, shuddering breaths, fingers clenched in a death grip around the hilt of the short knife he always takes to bed.

He had hoped the nightmares would stop after the war. Of course, fate granted him no such luck. Obito sits up slowly in his bed, feeling jittery and twitchy, like he might jump out of his skin any minute.

The ticking of the clock echoes noisily in the darkness. It grates on his nerves; he wants to make it stop. He entertains the notion of destroying the clock for a few seconds, fingers twitching in anticipation – but it really wouldn’t do, since this is the freaking Main Compound and the people living in it are always supposed to behave properly.

He breathes out noisily, hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, knees pulling close to his chest. His senses are too sharp for comfort, every nerve taut and singing like a live wire, and he feels like something wild that has been stuffed into a cage – luxurious, but a cage nonetheless. This bed is too soft, the room too warm, and everything feels so… wrong.

It’s an uncomfortable feeling, like an itch under his skin, constantly there but just out of reach. He doesn’t understand – isn’t he supposed to feel better, at least, now that the war’s finally over, now that he’s back where he belongs?

But he just _can’t relax_. What is _wrong_ with him?

Frustrated, Obito untangles himself from his blankets, kicking them off his legs, and slips out of the room. Maybe the night air will do him some good.

 

-

 

The hallway is cool and dark, dappled with shadows. The wooden floor panes are almost cold under his bare feet as he meanders through the winding corridors. This place makes him feel small, the way he felt when he was young and he had rarely ventured outside this building, when this Compound had been the sole confines of his little world. He feels like a ghost of his memories, an echo of the long-forgotten past.

He’s feeling calmer now – not particularly better, but not as jumpy as back in his room – and mulling over returning to bed when he sees a glow of light down another hallway. Apparently he’s not the only one spending a sleepless night – it’s at least three in the morning.

Suddenly curious, he pads close on silent feet, taking care not to make a single sound, not to leak a drop of his chakra. There are voices coming from the room – familiar voices, in fact, both low and emotional, like they are arguing about something.

“ – don’t know why you’re being so stubborn, Fugaku, surely you understand the point of the Elders, this is no time to be so obstinate.”

It takes a moment to place the voice – Obito picks through his head for a while before realizing that it belongs to none other than Uchiha Matou. And… Fugaku?

Obito blinks, thoughts grinding to a stop. So. He’s overhearing a potentially deep-secret conversation between an Uchiha Elder and the Clan Head. At least, he doesn’t see why this conversation is taking place in the dead of the night unless it is terribly important.

Well. He never said his life wasn’t interesting.

An involuntary grin spreads slowly across his face, and his pulse speeds up slightly in anticipation. He revels in the thrill – good to know his mischievous streak hadn’t died in the war – and tilts his head closer to the room, pressing into the dark shadows by the wall. His muscles are tense, ready to dart away in a quick escape if necessary.

 

-

 

When he replies, the Clan Head’s voice is tinged faintly with frustration. “I do not see where this is going, Matou-sama. Perhaps we should return to the more pressing matters at hand –”

Matou slams a hand on the table, making the teacups rattle and the papers shudder.

“This is no time for misdirection,” Matou hisses, “and this matter is hardly trivial. It has been overlooked for so long – and now it would be foolish to ignore this problem.”

Fugaku does not answer, and Matou takes it as a signal to proceed. “You know as well as I that the boy is a disgrace to the clan. This is no time for useless sentiment.”

“Sentiment?” Fugaku echoes quietly, an indefinable emotion brewing under his composure.

“Yes, sentiment!” Matou explodes, and then he coughs slightly, as if embarrassed by the way he lost control over his emotions. “I understand, Fugaku, that the boy resembles your brother greatly. Yet he is undeniably a half-blood, and a product of your brother’s carelessness, no less. He didn’t even know the boy _existed_ , for crying out loud.”

Fugaku still does not reply, instead choosing to sip thoughtfully from his cup. Matou’s mouth hardens into a thin line.

“And his mother,” Matou spits out disgustedly, “I still shudder to think what would have happened if the whore had not contacted us first in a blackmail attempt. Can you imagine, Fugaku? The Sharingan, auctioned off in the black markets, sold out to who knows where? If we had not intervened, if we had not taken care of the whore before it could execute the threat…”

There is a pregnant pause as the Elder trails off, scowling as if relieving a bad memory.

“He is but a humiliation, no more, no less. The deed should have been done when he was first found anyway. Yet you gave him to me to train, to teach our ways and traditions, as if to let him live like one of us, like a true Uchiha. Even when he showed no promise you only ordered him to be sent away, out of sight, as if that would change anything.

“And now what? You saw yourself that he has no control over the Mangekyo. He cannot even activate it without breaking down like a weakling. He does not deserve the Sharingan, much less the Mangekyo.” Matou’s voice is bitter, heavy with scorn and contempt. He shakes his head before continuing gravely.

“There are others who could benefit from those eyes, Fugaku,” he says, voice clear and strong, persuasive, “I hear your son is quite the prodigy – or even Shisui, he’s looking to be a fine shinobi. Or you could claim it, as the brother of the bastard’s father and the Head of this clan. Anyone, anyone other than the half-breed bastard that doesn’t even realize the honor of bearing them. Don’t you see that this is the opportunity to revive our clan into its former glory, that this is no time to be held back by sentiment?”

Fugaku stays silent for a few more moments before replying coolly. “Apparently your priorities need reevaluating, Elder Matou. More strength is important, yes, but in the end it means nothing if we keep on encouraging opposition with extreme moves.”

Matou opens his mouth as if to interrupt; Fugaku shoots him a cold gaze and continues as if nothing happened. “Besides, you must be slipping in your old age – I have never let sentiment rule my decisions. As for now, Uchiha Obito is a competent jounin, and also a student of Namikaze’s, who is another force to be reckoned with. I see no reason to remove him from his place yet. He is not completely worthless, and as long as he proves himself useful I shall tolerate him.”

The Clan Head puts down his cup in a seemingly final gesture, the sound echoing decisively in the small room. Matou narrows his eyes, but otherwise gives in gracefully.

“Very well, then, Clan Head,” he acquiesces, reluctant; “Let us hope that your decision is wise.”

“Good. Now, do let us move on to the next topic of discussion – we have more important things to cover before dawn. For one, the Sandaime has finally shown hints of stepping down from his seat… ”

 

-

 

Obito steps away quietly from the door – he’s heard enough. He moves smoothly, slipping through the shadows with ease in quick, careful steps calculated to make as little noise as possible. He makes it back to his room and unlocks the window, jumping outside with catlike stealth – and when his feet touch the ground, he runs and runs and runs.

Somehow he ends up before the Memorial Stone, not quite out of breath but close. When he stops he throws his head back and laughs – high and knife-edge sharp and distinctly unhinged. He laughs and laughs until his stomach aches and he can’t even breathe – and when that stops he falls on his knees before the monument, curling up into himself. The clearing is eerily silent except for the echoes of his own laughter that ring hollowly in his ears.

He is alone.

A sound tears itself out of his throat, a long unbroken note that starts out thin and high, like a faraway scream, before splintering into broken jagged shards that scrape at the insides of his throat and falling apart in terrible, heaving sobs that shake him down to his very bones. And oh, the tears. He cries like he’s wringing himself dry, like he’s emptying himself of all the tears he will ever shed in a lifetime.

He weeps without even knowing why, and it hurts, it hurts so much, and he can’t stop.

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

They never told him much about his parents, except that they were dead, and that he, their only child, was an Uchiha.

Lies.

( _“He didn’t even know the boy existed…”_ )

He is nothing, nothing but the result of his sire’s carelessness and his mother’s greed, a culmination of his parents’ sins, and –

( _“Imagine the Sharingan auctioned off in the black markets… as if to let him live like one of us, like a true Uchiha…”_ )

– nothing but a failed attempt at bloodline theft. Nowhere even close to being a full Uchiha.

He sees now, that the clan had never planned on accepting him, that he’s been used and discarded like a broken toy. How pathetic, now that he sees his entire struggle was meaningless, that his life had already been decided by others and he had never even thought to question it.

And now – why? Why had he never thought –

Why had he never even questioned the decision that he was to be sent to the front lines right after that horrible mission?

Why had he let them claim him as soon as they realized he had finally gained the Sharingan, why had he let them throw him away, again, once they confirmed that he could not control his powers?

Who gave them the right? Why did he never fight back, why didn’t he ever resist?

Hatred is like a wound that gapes open, bleeding freely, a slow inexorable burn that spreads from his heart through his veins. The pain is a constant, keeping him grounded within this wretched torrent of sorrow and misery, these tears that don’t stop, these cries that he cannot smother.

He howls deep into the night like a dying animal; inside he _burns_. They will pay. He will remember, and he will not forget, will not forgive. One day he will strike, and they will all bleed.

The war is not over. The only change is that the enemy is much, much harder to see, that the blows aren’t as transparent as they were on the battlefield.

He has already bloodied himself on those killing fields, sacrificed the lives of thousands to survive, and he cannot die, if only for that. He will not – cannot – let those lives go to waste. He will survive, and they will pay.

( _“As long as he proves himself useful…”_ )

He bites down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood – and glares up at the full moon, cold and bright and utterly indifferent. He bares his teeth in a macabre resemblance of a grin, and silently makes a vow.

He will not let them win. He will never become worthless, never become useless, and he will survive.

He will survive in this twisted world, and he will show them.

For once, he will win.


	4. Dreams, Reality

 

Peace looks strange in Konoha.

Civilians smile broadly on the streets holding their children’s hands. The ninja stride along with light feet and straighter backs, like a heavy weight has been taken off their shoulders. They all look happy. They all act happy.

Obito thinks it all looks like a dream. It doesn’t feel real.

Maybe it’s because he grew up in war. Or maybe it’s because he spent two years in the closest place to hell on earth, and he doesn’t remember what it was like, living and feeling like real people.

Maybe it’s because he just found out that the stupidest thing one can ever do is to trust everything that shows on the surface wholeheartedly.

… Well, whatever the reason, Obito doesn’t care.

The bizarre surreality of it all makes it easier for him to pretend it’s actually a dream and not reality, and that makes it easier for him to keep himself in check, because there’s no reason to get angry about what’s not real.

There’s no reason for him to wonder why they all had to die, Rin and Kai and all those other nameless squad members, why them and not him, why the deaths of those who were killed in action are so easily forgotten, with only a slab of stone carved full of names to soothe their restless souls, and why even that is located somewhere so secluded, so easily overlooked.

(Why?)

(How can you all look so happy when all those who have died never even got the chance to enjoy the luxury bought with their blood?)

It also helps that these cruel, selfish thoughts make him ashamed of what he feels, and he pushes them away as much as he can.

But he can’t really help it – something boils inside him, or maybe it _is_ him, this twisted, raw, broken something that seethes like an open flame. Maybe, if he stopped fighting it, maybe he could burn, burn to his heart’s content until he eventually burns himself out. He almost has half a mind to actually do it; but that’s just stupid, because that would be what people like the Uchiha Elders would be waiting for, the tiniest excuse to strip him of what power he has gained and to throw him down into the gutter he crawled out of.

And because Uchiha Obito has always, always been on the losing end of this fight, even when he didn’t even realize there _was_ a fight, always so powerless and small compared to the people who built the world and decided what was right, he can’t afford that to happen.

He has to get stronger, and even though he might not belong, people won’t pay much attention as long as he keeps himself in check and produces adequate results. Everyone is surprisingly indifferent to what happens to other people as long as it doesn’t affect them. So when he is in the village, he tamps down his rage and numbs his mind and his thoughts, seeing without seeing, hearing without hearing, drifting through the shadows.

After all, that had been what he had been best at before he met Rin – hiding in the sidelines with his head bowed, letting his cousins shine.

 

-

 

They say there is a limit to which an individual can endure pain, and that something beyond that limit can damage a person beyond repair. This makes sense, because there must be a reason T&I has an entire branch dedicated to inflicting deliberate pain onto people to make them spit out whatever precious information kept in their heads, or to break them completely to be able to sift through their memories like a goddamned photo album.

Sometimes Obito wonders if he broke something that night he cried in front of the Memorial Stone, something that might have been an essential part of who he once was. This idea gnaws at the back of his thoughts restlessly, an indefinable nagging at the back of his mind that intensifies with every mission he goes on, until he finally realizes the source of his uneasiness.

It’s in the middle of a mission, and the fight is nearly over. Obito watches a man slide off his kunai, blood bubbling out of his mouth and nose, hands still flailing with the attempt to finish his seals. Obito looks down into the man’s deadening eyes, watches the light go out of them, feels rather than sees the man gasp out his last breath.

And he realizes he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Obito blinks slowly, wiping warm blood off his face, and tries in vain to summon some of the guilt he knows he felt once, that sharp punch-stab to his heart that always felt like penance, no matter how meaningless it was.

He fails. For some reason, this makes him slightly… sad.

He isn’t very sure. The wisp of sorrow vanishes as quickly as it came, and amidst the adrenaline still thundering in his veins and the leftover aggression from the fight, he wonders if he had just imagined it.

He looks around, and sees two of his teammates dispatch the last of the enemies with quick, practiced movements. They move together gracefully, covering each other’s blind spots seamlessly. It’s like they’re sharing minds and thoughts, their cooperation so natural that it has become near instinctive.

Obito watches blankly as the kunoichi on the receiving end of those attacks stumbles, then falls, blood pouring from the hole in her side. She doesn’t even get to close her eyes as she collapses, intestines sliding out like blue-white snakes.

It suddenly reminds him of another girl, eyes still open and glassy in death. Obito’s eyes reflexively flicker to Rin, and he is slightly relieved to see her still smiling, serene and untouched by the horrors of the mortal world. Or maybe she just doesn’t see. It’s not like she has any eyes. Maybe that’s better. Maybe selective blindness is what everyone needs to stay sane.

Obito doesn’t think he’s very sane. The Sharingan sees too much, and doesn’t let him forget.

With the tense, strained atmosphere of the fight draining away, Obito feels the tiredness creeping back to him like a faithful companion. He suddenly wants nothing more than to flop down on the ground (even if it’s puddled with blood) and fall asleep. Since he’s feeling this tired, he might even get to sleep a little deeply this time. And if he’s lucky, he won’t even get any dreams.

Lost in the contemplation of whether fatigue is a good excuse to drop out of the after-mission cleanup, Obito doesn’t see how close the medic has gotten to him. It’s when he taps Obito on the shoulder warily that Obito flinches and looks up. He almost, almost stabs him in the gut out of pure instinct, but thankfully Obito aborts the attack just in time. The medic obviously doesn’t see it that way, though, because the acute discomfort Obito can feel radiating off the man only gets stronger. Even the methodical, clinical procedure of checking his wounds, disinfecting and closing them with healing chakra feels strained and disjointed, like the medic is trying very hard not to let his hands tremble.

Obito wonders if this is the last mission he will go on with this team. After all, this is the… sixth or seventh team he’s been foisted off on, and none of the teams kept him more than three missions. He feels like a fourth wheel, too, because this team is so obviously well-balanced, with the perfectly synchronized fighting pair and a steady, calm medic. His own style of fighting is crude and destructive to himself as much as others; so far, it has become more a hindrance than a help.

It’s not that his style isn’t effective – the fact that he survived until now, at least, proves that – but he had to learn on the front lines how to fight with only raw survival instinct to lean on, and therefore he isn’t very good at considering others who might get caught up in his actions. But even in his mind, that sounds like an excuse, and a weak one. So Obito just decides to think that he just isn’t good enough. The difference is made clear by the corpses splayed on the field right now, anyway. The shinobi dispatched by the other pair have been cut down with surgically precise wounds, while Obito’s kills have been half-roasted and hacked at awkwardly till they couldn’t stay up, since he tended to attack wherever he could reach, whenever he saw an opportunity.

Obito wonders when Mission Assignment will finally get into their heads that the teams don’t want him and start sending him on solo missions. He’d used to wonder, maybe up until the time he got rejected by the third or fourth team, where his original team was… but now he guesses that they probably didn’t want to see him anymore, either.

And if even they couldn’t stand him, who would? When the medic finishes working his magic on Obito’s bigger wounds, Obito nods him a thanks. The man nods in return, even though he seems (understandably) uncomfortable of the idea of turning his back on Obito to walk away. Obito pretends he doesn’t notice the man’s discomfort and moves away first, reaching for a sealing scroll with his newly-mended arm to put away the bodies.

 

-

 

The Uchiha, as always, are a bunch of complete assholes. However, Obito doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve anymore, and he just focuses on ignoring his blood relatives’ existence. In return, he is ignored right back, except for the occasional disgusted scowls and glares. But they don’t actually say anything, and Obito pretends he doesn’t see a thing. This way, they have something resembling a working relationship.

That night, after he got back from the Memorial Stone, he acted like nothing happened. He didn’t ask about the Mangekyo, he didn’t ask about his parents, he stayed quiet and out of attention. He was half sure that if he brought any of those topics out for discussion, they might decide that keeping him alive wasn’t really worth the trouble and ‘take care of’ him quickly and discreetly. He didn’t want to take that risk.

It wasn’t very hard, and no one looked too close at an orphan with no real social connections, no political influence. Nothing had changed, except that now Obito lived in the Main Compound and had to put more effort into maneuvering the corridors to avoid the Clan Elders and the more unpleasant of his cousins.

All in all, the complete, unwavering indifference is very convenient.

It’s also strangely painful. Not that it matters, of course. Obito is now very good at blocking out unwanted emotions.

 

-

 

The sun is warm, and the golden light pools in the streets, along the corners, lighting every corner of the village like there is no evil in the world. Rin looks around smiling; she claps in delight along with the children’s excited shrieks, the lively shouts from the marketplace. With her back turned, she almost looks alive and whole and healthy, one among the many joyful people still celebrating the end of the war.

Obito knows she should be the one here. Rin was always like the sun; she would have been able to smile and laugh and be happy, wholeheartedly glad to see everyone else happy. She would never have entertained any selfish, cruel thoughts like Obito. She belongs here in this picture of pure, unadulterated peace, and if Obito had been just a little faster, she could have been here, with Kakashi, with Minato sensei. And Obito – Obito would have been able to die under those cold, still rocks, forever blissfully ignorant of the merciless cruelty of the truth; a hero’s death for the child that should not have been born.

In the village he pretends that the dream is real, as he stands in the shadows and watches the surreal perfection of the illusions produced by his unstable mind.

Deep down, though, he knows this is not real, and it hurts in a way that he can’t really put into words. But reality can bother him later, when he’s on missions or pretending he doesn’t exist in the Uchiha Compound.

Right now, numbed by the warm contentment of sunlight-laughter-Rin, Obito thinks, _this is enough_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, another chapter. I think everyone must have forgotten what this story was all about, let alone this story even existed.  
> (For those of you who haven't, though, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I love you all.)
> 
> So, just to refreshen your memory, a quick summary of the last three chapters:  
> 1 - Rin's death  
> 2 - frontlines + war  
> 3 - Elder Matou and Fugaku's conversation -> realization + mental breakdown  
> (Um, and just in case, the background of Obito's birth in this story is completely original; I don't think canon gave us any clues about Obito's parents)
> 
> And to tell the truth, I kind of really hate this chapter. Really. It's one of the reasons this updated so, so late. I've been in the phase of 'OMG my writing is horrible what do I do' but I decided that if I kept on like this, I won't update till December.  
> So I really hope you could comment whether this chapter is atrocious, or still salvageable. Of course, I'm not going to go through the hell of rewriting it either way, but it would be a great reassurance for me to know that this story is still being read. :3


	5. To Be Real

 

The Clan holds a meeting every month. It’s a family gathering, they say; a tradition. But truthfully – from what Obito has seen, it’s where parents show off their children and arrange marriages between promising shinobi, where rumors are passed around in hushed whispers. Well, it _might_ have started out in order to facilitate familial reunions and bonding, a few decades ago. Hypothetically. Supposedly.

It’s not like Obito knows a lot about this so-called tradition, anyway, seeing that he had no idea it even existed two years ago, before the war. Funny how those things happen, right? It’s all because of the lack of communication, of course – even though they all lived on the same district.

Right.

For the moment, Obito is busy pretending to be part of the shadow in the dustiest corner of the hall. It’s not exactly difficult, since all formal Uchiha wear come in shades of dark blue or even darker black. Or, no, actually, he’s calculating the chances of anyone noticing his absence if he chooses to conveniently disappear.

They seem pretty slim.

Especially so, since the Elders, the Clan Head, and the choice representatives of family branches have discreetly left the hall about two hours into the meeting. They’re probably in some fancy secret chamber holding a top secret meeting, talking inter-village politics, inter-clan politics, all those classified information only available to the top dogs.

However – since Elder Matou took the effort in actually following Obito through all the hallways and cornering him in his room, all to hiss out a single word –

( _Behave._ )

Would it count as misbehavior, if he were to leave the hall before this mind-numbingly horrible pseudo-family reunion ended with its grand formal finale?

Obito feels that the answer would be most emphatically _yes_. With that reassuring thought, he closes his eyes, and tries his best to ignore the headache that has been steadily manifesting around his temples, the unbelievable dryness of his eyes. It must be all the perfume, he supposes, all the alcohol in the air. The Uchiha Clan _is_ a sprawling one, after all, and all these people are filthy rich, with the fortune they have amassed over the centuries.

His head hurts. He wishes Rin were here, but she rarely appears when he is in the presence of his family. Which is okay, really, because he understands; he doesn’t want her to be cooped up in this dusty mausoleum of a compound either, he wants her to be free and laughing and happy, in the sunlight, under blue skies and fluffy clouds.

His head still hurts, though.

“Are you not feeling well?”

There is a split-second confusion where Obito wonders if his hallucinations have finally decided that visual torture isn’t quite enough and he is having auditory hallucinations as well, because that sounds like what Rin would say to him if she were here. But the voice is off; it’s not the voice of a young girl.

Obito pushes up his heavy eyelids with some difficulty, and then looks toward the direction of the voice, still leaning against the wall.

And he hastily straightens up, trying to school his expression into something inoffensive. He doesn’t think he actually succeeds in erasing the frown in time, though.

“It’s just a little headache, Mikoto-sama.”

Thankfully, no one seems to notice that Uchiha Mikoto is deigning to speak to the clan’s pariah. That’s good. Obito doesn’t want to draw attention, because he knows that it will all be negative. And negative attention rarely leads to good things.

Mikoto gives him a thoughtful gaze. Obito finds her scrutiny uncomfortable; it feels like she’s trying to read him, to assess him. He wishes she would go away, go back to whoever she’s been with all this time, and leave him in his quiet shadows, unnoticed, away from the whispers, the flickering eyes, the reek of disapproval.

A small frown pulls down the corners of her mouth. “You should get more rest. You take too many missions.”

If more work was the price he had to pay for not setting foot in the compound, he would gladly work himself to the bone, fatigue be damned. “I’m perfectly fine with my schedule, Mikoto-sama. I can manage.”

Mikoto holds him in a steady gaze, and it seems strangely sorrowful. Abruptly, she changes the subject. “Your cousin wanted to see you, actually.” And when she steps aside, there really is someone there, waiting politely to be let into the conversation. “I will leave you two to get reacquainted – I’m afraid I have left in the middle of something.”

Uchiha Mikoto nods to both of them, and she is gone, light footfalls and the swish of thick robes fading away into the distant murmur of the crowds. Obito watches her go. He wonders why she’s suddenly taking interest in him. Why she bothered to lead whoever-it-was to Obito personally, when she could have just as easily just pointed him out in his sorry little hiding place. He wonders who in the Clan would have even wanted to see him, let alone bother Uchiha Mikoto for his whereabouts. He wonders if this is a sort of a practical joke.

Not really the clan’s style, but still –

“Nii-san?”

Obito turns back to the boy that Mikoto left behind, taking in his dark hair, curly and tousled like a bird’s nest, the all-too-familiar aristocratic features of the Uchiha underneath. He looks puzzled, and he scans Obito’s face as if searching for something. Then his face brightens – eyes coming alight with warmth and joy, a smile spreading across his face.

He says, “You grew out your hair, Obito-nii, I almost didn’t recognize you!”

The boy laughs, a warm, open sound, and Obito suddenly wishes that he were standing anywhere, anywhere else but with his back to a wall so that he could take a step back. So he can run. Because while he can withstand cold looks and wariness, can match contempt with contempt and disdain with indifference, this – this feels like a sucker punch to his gut.

And feeling lightheaded, breathless, like he’s forgotten how to breathe, he answers, “… Shisui?’

 

-

 

It feels like he’s dying inside, slowly.

Obito stands frozen, transfixed, eyes glued to Shisui’s face, as the boy proceeds to tell him how much he _missed_ him, his Obito-nii, and how good it is to finally, _finally_ , see him again. And I heard you made jounin already, nii-san, he says, you must have gotten really good.

And Obito can’t breathe. He’s not getting enough air. His chest feels too tight, constricted.

There is a spike of pain building behind his breastbone, right in the center of his chest, like he’s swallowed a shuriken and the sharp edges are tearing up his insides.

A part of him is screaming, recoiling, desperately trying to flinch away, away – away from every earnest smile, every trace of effusive joy, the pure untainted innocence of a young child. It is _unbearable_.

He feels like he’s been dragged out into the light; like he’s being pointed out each and every way he’s been broken, all the damages that run soul-deep, and he hates it.

He hates this.

He wants to scream. But no, he dares not. He can’t make himself shatter this moment; dares not even gasp loudly for breath, because surely, Shisui would notice, he isn’t blind – and this, all of this would be ruined, would come apart and come to an end.

He wants so desperately for Shisui to go away.

He thinks he would die if he really does.

He is torn, all the broken shards inside him at war with each other, and he feels like he’s falling apart all over again. Like he is about to cave in, collapse in on himself, crumble into a pile of dust and ashes.

Obito tightens his arms crossed over his chest, as if to hold himself together. Breathing gently, just shallow gulps of air, but unable to speak or to even turn away. Obito just nods silently every time Shisui pauses for breath or looking for a response, although he doesn’t hear about half of what he’s saying with the screaming inside his head.

Abruptly, Shisui stops talking. “Nii-san? Are you okay?”

_No_. Obito opens his lips, only to find that his mouth is too dry. He swallows, runs his tongue over cracked lips. “Just a headache,” he croaks, reusing his previous excuse.

Shisui frowns. “You look like you’re hurting.”

And he looks so worried. So sincere. Earnest. Not like an Uchiha. Not like a shinobi.

Obito thinks he’s going to cry.

He remembers almost nothing about this cousin except for his name, and even that was more of a knee-jerk response than a conscious thought. Even though they must have been pretty close to each other once, judging by Shisui’s behavior towards him right now. Even though Shisui seems to remember Obito without any problem at all.

So how can he smile, no worries, and pretend everything’s all right?

Obito finds it hard to swallow around the hard lump in his throat. He opens his mouth to say – what, he has no idea. He closes his mouth with a snap.

It’s so hard to breathe.

And that’s when a hard voice calls: “Uchiha Shisui!” Shisui whips his head around, face falling blank, and Obito drops his head to hide his face. He would never, never show weakness in front of anyone in his clan – even though Shisui might be an exception, now. His hair falls in a black curtain around him, shoulder-length, and he looks up through his lashes as he wipes away any remaining traces of emotion from his expression.

A stern-faced woman strides towards them, steel gray hair tied up into a bun. She wears the Uchiha crest proudly on her robes. An Elder. The Elders’ meeting must have ended, then; maybe the gathering itself is coming to a close as well.

“Come,” she says imperiously, and from the tone of her voice it is clear that she expects to be obeyed. Shisui’s mouth tightens, but only slightly; Obito doesn’t think he would have noticed if he weren’t standing so close. He glances at Obito quickly, mouthing _see you later, nii-san_ , before flitting away.

From his niche in the shadowy corner, Obito watches them walk away, and a fragment of their conversation drifts back to him: “ – are not to associate with that boy anymore, do you understand?”

Obito sees Shisui nod, his neck stiff, but as the Elder strides forward, obviously expecting Shisui to fall behind, the boy glances back and mouths: _later_. There is a spark of defiance in his eyes. After a second of hesitation, Obito nods back, very slightly, knowing he will see – all Uchiha have excellent eyesight – and Shisui relaxes, smiling before turning away.

 

-

 

That night, he dreams of a funeral.

The shrine is full of candles; the flickering light shines down on black mourning clothes. The thick smell of burning incense curls in the air, heavy as a drape.

Obito stands at the very back of the hall, behind the grim, black-robed crowd, next to a younger boy with short hair. His eyes are red-rimmed; he is sniffling slightly. He looks like he’s been crying.

“Did you know them well?” Obito asks, detachedly curious. The boy turns slightly towards him, and with a jolt Obito recognizes him as himself. Younger. A different person.

“No,” his younger self replies, quiet and hoarse, “but they didn’t deserve to die.” He turns back to face the front, mouth trembling. Then he says, “When I become Hokage, I’ll make it so that no one has to die in war.”

Obito hears all the hidden tremors in that voice. All the ways they are going to break and shatter. It’s a pathetic lie, and a cruel one. He tells him, in that same detached monotone, “You’ll never become Hokage.” A matter of fact. The boy doesn’t hear him. Well, it doesn’t matter. There is no point, anyway. No point at all.

The ceremony lasts a long time. Obito doesn’t know how long. He stares blankly at the rows of black clothes, the same shade of blue-black hair. The familiar emblem etched onto their backs that he has learned to ignore. When it is over they all file out, in twos and threes, murmuring with their voices pitched low, hard-eyed, some with sorrow set into the planes of their faces. They do not cry.

Obito half-expects the boy to do the same. He doesn’t, though; instead, he waits until everyone vacates the room, standing silent at the very back, motionless. Then he walks forward, unsurely at first, but soon gaining determination. Purposeful.

Obito follows behind, wondering what happened before. He doesn’t remember. His footsteps make no noise as he drifts along behind his rustling counterpart.

When they reach the front, Obito realizes that he had been wrong in thinking they were alone in the hall. There is a child kneeling there, all in black, head bowed. Obito watches as his younger self approaches the child, hesitant, and sit down next to him without much grace.

Then the child raises his head, and it’s like someone’s driven a spike through where Obito’s heart should be.

He knows without having to be told, that this is Shisui – Shisui, before he was ever noticed as a genius, the little boy whose world crashed down on him all in one day. And this is his parents’ funeral. Obito feels rooted to the spot, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Shisui just stares at ten-year-old Obito, his face blank like porcelain. He looks like he hasn’t cried. Or slept. Or eaten.

“You can cry, you know,” younger-Obito says, his voice broken and cracking, stubbornly looking forward. “Don’t have to listen to what all the adults say. They’re all dumb.”

Shisui blinks. “I don’t – ” then he drops his head, swallowing thickly, blinking fast. “I,” he tries, and closes his mouth again. Swallows again. Then he seems to shrink into himself, his back curling like a ball. He trembles, and his breathing hitches.

When he speaks again, his voice is painfully small.

“They said, they aren’t coming back again,” he whispers, and curls even more into himself. “They, said, they aren’t, coming, back, again.”

The fine tremors turn erratic, his breathing quickens. The child falls apart right in front of Obito’s eyes, both the past and the present, and he sobs like the sky is falling down, like the world is ending. “And they – and they – they _promised_ , they promised,” Shisui babbles through his tears, “that they – were going to be _fine_.” It’s awful to watch, because it feels like – Obito doesn’t even know. “And I, I didn’t, didn’t even say _good bye_.”

Shisui cries like his sobs are being wrenched out of him, one by one, and now he’s wracked with them, face blotched red with tears and snot, crumpling in on himself like used tissue paper. And beside him, younger-Obito is crying again, too – two orphans, huddled together and crying their hearts out in the dimness of the empty shrine, mourning what they will never have again.

When Obito wakes up, gasping and drenched in sweat, his face is wet with tears. They don’t stop, for a long time, like running faucets, and Obito curls around the foreign-familiar ache inside his ribcage, the ragged empty throb of a long lost heart, trying desperately to suck in enough air without making much noise.

And he decides, Shisui is real.

He must be real, he thinks, trying to breathe through his traitorous, constricting windpipe, because if he weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt so much.

It wouldn’t hurt so fucking much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wanted to make this chapter longer, and it's really a shame I couldn't finish writing the part I wanted to post. But, you all know, real life gets in the way, and I chopped this chapter in half. 
> 
> Oh, by the way, Obito's 15, Kakashi's (because I think he was a year younger) becoming 14 his coming birthday, Shisui is 10, Itachi's 6. Both Sasuke and Naruto haven't yet been born.


	6. Pain Relief

 

When he wakes up with a jerk, the sky is a cloudy, steel gray, barely dawn. It feels like he’s been startled out of sleep, but he isn’t sure of what. Checking the clock, he notes that it’s only been three hours since he went to bed – he could (should) sleep more. Even though he knows this, and he really does want his body to fall asleep again, it just doesn’t come. After a moment of lying awake and motionless, he slides out of bed and heads to the washroom. Stands in front of the mirror and stares into the black fathomless eyes of a boy he doesn’t recognize.

(He does not know him. He is nobody without a name; a blurred shadow melded into a dreamworld of fantasies and hallucinations.)

But then there is a spark of chakra; and when the boy’s eyes flash red, a bright red like the flowers that bloom in summer, like fresh blood, and three black tomoe spin and spin and spin around his pupils – the world comes alive, slows down, a moment of clairvoyance crystallized in time. He is Uchiha Obito, or that used to be his name, and for that moment he is _there_ , he is real.

(And there is something _other_ that stares out from behind those eyes, something that seethes; something that does not forget, does not forgive. It whispers sweetly of retribution, of vengeance.)

Obito blinks slowly, clearing his disorganized thoughts.

He stares into the mirror, and his reflection stares back, face blank but lids still heavy with sleep. He blinks another few times, shaking off the remaining drowsiness. Now that he’s mostly awake, he might as well get on with his daily morning routine.

Taking a deep breath, Obito braces himself, and slowly increases the chakra flow to his eyes. He takes care to do it in small increments, like walking up a set of stairs, one at a time; and he waits.

The three black tomoe elongate, still revolving around the pupils, and connect; and then they spread out, unfurling into a shuriken-like pattern that spins in his eyes.

_Mangekyo_.

Obito presses his palms to the glass, leans in to study the red-black pinwheels. They spin and spin and spin, endless, ceaseless, like the needles of a clock.

And yet.

Obito does not see what is so special about it. Yes, it enhances his vision even beyond the abilities of the normal Sharingan – every second stretches out, his eyes catching and focusing on every stray twitch, the movements of muscles; they see a hundred possibilities of the next move, predictions and prophesy overlapping over the present, discarded the very next moment as the future catches up with them. Everything becomes brighter, clearer, and somehow slightly faded. Over those faded colors dance ripples of pure light – _chakra_ , he knows, _chakra_.

There is a terrible, heartbreaking sort of beauty to it, something that calls out to some long-forgotten instinct. Some strange potent emotion that lurks around the corner.

Unfortunately, Obito doesn’t really have time for emotions in the Main Compound. (Or anywhere else, actually. But that’s not the point.) Besides, the enhanced vision isn’t worth the waiting time and chakra control if he wants to use it in the heat of battle. Much more efficient to stick with what he’s gotten familiar with.

He shuts down the Mangekyo with a blink, pinwheels retracting into the normal three-tomoe Sharingan he has long since gotten used to. The world goes a little dimmer, flatter, and he almost regrets it. But there is already a light headache starting around his temples, the way you sometimes get when you stare at something too bright for too long, and a sore tiredness grows in his eyes. It might either be because of the Mangekyo usage, or the lack of sleep. He suspects it’s a little of both.

As he deactivates even the Sharingan, the world becomes muted, a dull expanse of drab grays and blacks. He glances at the clock outside and sees that barely a minute has passed. That’s to be expected; the Sharingan has its way of fucking with time perception.

But still, progress. Obito washes his face with cold water, trying and failing to rub the fatigue out of his eyes. That – _dreadful_ – conversation he overheard between Fugaku-sama and Elder Matou had done him one good thing – it had brought back a hazy memory from before the front lines.

A room full of Elders, _chakra to your eyes, boy_ , then _pain_ , and screaming, screaming, screaming.

The first time he tried it on his own before this very mirror, he had been hasty again, just thoughtlessly shoving chakra to his eyes. Fortunately, no photographic flashbacks followed, but it had felt like there were fireworks _in his eyes_ , and he’d collapsed on the cold tiles, hands clamped over his upper face and biting the insides of his mouth to stifle the screams. Only when the pain had subsided to a sort of icepick-sharp migraine inside his brain could he shakily pick himself up off the floor, just to see thin trickles of blood running from his eyes.

It took two weeks of poking gingerly at the boundaries of his pain tolerance before he could activate the Mangekyo without losing blood.

Maybe in another month he will be able to figure out what makes these eyes so remarkable as to bring soft undertones of reverence into the Elders’ voices.

Obito dries off his face with one of the towels and walks out of the small bathroom attached to his room, back into the gray, lackluster loop of his life. There is a messenger bird perched on his windowsill, waiting to be let in, probably carrying the summons for a mission.

He opens the window and the bird hops in. As always, the scrap of paper only holds a time and a place to meet with the team, just above the official seal of Mission Assignment. He’ll likely be briefed by the team leader there. Obito hopes it’s a long-term, but you never know; if it turns out to be another long-term, he’ll have time to come back and pack better after the briefing – but for now, he’ll just pack light and simple, standard short-term.

 

-

 

The mission turns out to be a three-day border patrol.

(There’s blood and fire and blood, and then there are just bodies and ashes, ashes, ashes.)

 

-

 

It’s spring, and although it rarely snows in Konoha, it is rather obvious that the land is shaking off the winter coldness. The air is warmer. New leaves are budding green on the trees. Flowers are blooming.

It’s a nice day to be outside. Civilians mill about on the streets, and the vendors are bustling with people. The markets are absolutely packed, and the crowd makes it easier to blend into the sea of people. It’s difficult to hear anything else over the bright chatter and the bubbling laughter of the crowds.

Obito could lose himself in this place. Settle comfortably with his back to a wall or something, and just… watch. Just a set of eyes at the edge of the picture. As long as he isn’t surrounded completely, his instincts won’t set off too many warning bells.

Except, unfortunately, the wounds from his last mission won’t let him drift into that calm, trance-like mindset right now. Obito actually has to make an effort to move around smoothly like nothing hurts. It’s a wonder how frequently simple B-ranked border patrols – the country, not the village – seem to escalate into A-rank bloodbaths these days. The war between the nations may be over, but tensions and enmity between the shinobi villages are higher than ever; and since neither Konoha nor the Fire Daimyo wants hostile shinobi within the borders… Well, suffice it to say that 75% of all the border patrols Obito has taken (Mission Assignment seems to love saddling him with those) have turned into all-out nightmares.

Right now, the broken ribs on his left have been set and mended, but still tender; however, it’s the half-healed burn that swathes around his left side and a generous amount of his back that’s giving him more trouble.

He doesn’t think it was really intentional of the medic; there was a lot of blood, and she was a little desperate to get away quickly. She might not have noticed that he needed a little more treatment, and he hadn’t wanted to call her back for it.

Of course, that might just be what he wants to believe.

But that doesn’t matter, either, because he doubts he’ll be going on another mission as a tagalong on that team. Let Mission Assignment beat their heads against the wall looking for another team that will take him. He doesn’t think there _are_ many left.

(It would be easier if they just let him go solo.)

(Oh, but he already knows the answer to that: solo missions are only for _worthy_ shinobi who’ve proved themselves to be mostly _sane_ and adequately _skilled_ and _dedicated to the village_.)

(Which, in their eyes, he isn’t.)

The burn of fresh resentment, combined with his short fuse, suddenly makes him unreasonably, blindingly _furious_. If only – if he weren’t aware of his precarious position, he would have been happy to smash everything in sight and build a pyre with their remains. (He needs another mission right the fucking _now_ , where all those actions are not really considered amiss.)

He summarily decides that it is not a good idea to stay in the middle of all these _people_. (Who he could rip into pieces, who could _kill_ _him_ , who would never ever pay any attention to him never understand never care – )

Obito darts into the first deserted alley he finds and speeds deeper into the winding maze that Konoha’s back streets are.

 

-

 

About an hour later, Obito stands quietly in the shade of some building, watching Rin admire a miniature garden someone managed to create on a cramped window ledge. He’s managed to push down the bitterness and the rage somewhere into the murky depths of his mind, and now he just feels exhausted.

(A small voice in the back of his head informs him derisively: _‘Out of sight, out of mind’ isn’t going to solve any of your problems_.)

(shut up)

He is happy watching Rin. He really, really is.

 

-

 

Since it’s his day off and he has nothing better to do – he’s already sharpened and oiled his weapons into edges sharp enough to be new during last night’s sleepless frenzy, and his wound bothers him too much to train – Obito spends his time wandering through the deserted narrow streets and back alleys, absentmindedly following Rin as she weaves between the buildings.

In daylight, this place seems like another world entirely, cut off from the rush of civilization in the main streets. There is a certain peace here that lends Obito a sense of temporary complacency. He lets his eyelids droop as he leans into a convenient brick wall on his right, and around him there is only the gentle whoosh of a spring breeze, the rustling of tree branches, the faraway snippets of birdcall…

… and a set of soft footsteps approaching from behind.

Obito’s eyes snap open, adrenaline spiking through his system, and whips around, wide awake in less than a single second. If it turns out to be a threat, although he isn’t really up for close combat now, he can throw his knife accurately enough to buy himself time to run.

He’s cursing himself for parading around without anything but _one_ knife, his fingers curling around the hilt, when he meets a set of black eyes similar to his own. Obito freezes for one moment, uncertain and confused.

Shisui smiles sheepishly, apologetic. “Um, sorry, Obito-nii. Did I startle you?”

Once again, Obito feels desperately out of breath, like a steel band has tightened around his lungs.

(he wants to run)

He only manages to choke out a single sentence. “…It’s okay.”

(run)

 

-

 

Obito hadn’t thought Shisui would actually keep his word.

(Oh, let’s be honest: he’d dropped the matter from his mind entirely because he didn’t want to think about it, ever since the Clan Meeting nearly a week ago.)

It is all horribly unsettling. Obito feels increasingly twitchier as they walk side by side in silence. But when he looks out of the corners of his eyes, Shisui looks completely at ease. Calm and peaceful, no traces of tension in his face or limbs.

(That’s not right, not right, notrightnotright _sowrong_ )

Obito knows fear, apprehension, wariness. He can read those on people like open books. And they all act that way for a reason, however hard they try to hide it, and that’s because they know what he is.

So the question is, does Shisui know.

(And if he doesn’t, does Obito want to enlighten him?)

The way Obito sees it, his life has been divided cleanly into Before and After: Before the War and After the War (even though that’s wrong – the war has been going on much longer than that; but to him, Kannabi Bridge will always be the start of War). And who he had been Before and who he is now are so glaringly different they may as well be different people.

Not that Obito would be able to point out the differences. He doesn’t recall how he used to think Before. Doesn’t remember his own mindset, the reasoning behind his actions. . There are only snippets of memories that don’t seem very real, and even those are fuzzy. But he knows enough to know that he is no longer that young boy.

Shisui used to know Uchiha Obito from Before.

(It doesn’t mean he knows him now.)

Obito feels something twist sharply inside his gut, and a horrible, bitter taste fills his mouth. _Shisui has a right to know_.

( _It doesn’t have to be **now**_ , a dreadfully convincing voice whispers inside his head.)

_It’s not fair_.

Obito has the feeling that something is laughing at him in the back of his head. ( _Go ahead if you’re so fond of being alone, then_.)

Before Obito can snap back at the voice (which is clearly another sign of his cracking sanity, he thinks bitterly), Shisui speaks up.

“Are you out of the village often, nii-san? I couldn’t find you yesterday, or the day before that.”

Obito almost flinches, except he’s had more practice at controlling himself ever since the war ended. More than he’d ever wanted, to be exact. As they round another corner, Obito replies cautiously, with his voice somehow not reflecting even an ounce of his inner turmoil and remaining perfectly steady,

“A little.” Pause. “… I take all the missions I can.”

Shisui nods thoughtfully. “Then I guess I was lucky to catch you today.” Then he grins, the smile seeping into his voice, “And really lucky to meet you _here_.”

“…Here?” Confusion colors Obito’s voice. After all, what was special about these back alleys?

“Yes.” Shisui nods. “The Police force almost never patrols these alleys except for special occasions like emergencies, because they’re too narrow and really jumbled. Everyone gets lost in them. In the day there’s close to no one in here, and at night no normal person would go wandering around these streets – it’s practically looking for trouble. Besides, all village entrances and exits have to be reached using the bigger streets.”

The Police force being the Clan, of course, and Obito immediately understands. It would mean trouble if they were seen together, especially when an Elder had specifically told Shisui not to interact with him.

“And you seem very familiar with these alleys.” Obito notes, because now that he thinks about it, Shisui doesn’t seem at all hesitant in navigating through these maze-like streets. He’d just been keeping with Shisui’s pace wordlessly, too caught up in his thoughts to notice, but there’s almost a sense of confidence radiating from the boy as he strides through the twisting lanes.

Shisui smiles deviously. “They’re really convenient. And I didn’t like that feeling of being watched all the time, either. Besides, even if I run into anyone unsavory, Konoha shinobi don’t have much of a reason to attack me, and civilian thugs I can handle well enough myself.”

It makes sense, in a way. Shisui is the one other Uchiha who has enough reason to dislike the Clan – or at least, feel wronged by them.

And yet, the Clan still holds power over them. Obito’s mood turns abruptly sour.

“Nii-san?” Shisui’s voice breaks through his thoughts. Obito glances over, and realizes Shisui is standing next to the opening of an alley that seems to open out into one of the bigger streets. “I kind of need to go now, it’s nearly dinnertime… but we can meet again later, right?”

And the damning out-of-breath sensation is back again, like someone’s shut off his windpipe.

Shisui smiles and turns to go without really waiting for an answer, like he’s taking Obito’s silence as a yes.

“I don’t really remember you that well.” The words tumble out of him like a confession, and for the first time today, Obito’s voice wavers slightly. _And now I’ve said it_. _And now it’s over_.

Shisui stops in his tracks, and then he looks around, just enough for Obito to see that he is still smiling. But he looks a little sad.

“I think I already knew,” Shisui says quietly. “But it’s alright. You came back.”

He smiles, warm and sincere, and chirps out “See you later then!” before slipping out onto the main street, disappearing into the bustle of the crowds.

Obito stays standing there for a long time, nails digging sharply into the palms of his hands.

It feels like someone is trying to squeeze his heart through a rubber pipe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter for the wait. Thank you for all your comments and encouragements on the last chapter! And on all the others before. :)
> 
> They make up, like, 80% of my motivation to write.
> 
> I think it would be safe to say that there will be more character interactions from the next chapter. And plot, can't forget that. Which is a good thing, because I was getting a little tired of writing introspection.
> 
> +) Right, I wanted to ask this: how many of you agree with the saying "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"? Because these days, I'm not really sure about it.


	7. Tremors

 

There are some things that you learn on the battlefield that stay with you forever. That just doesn’t go away, can’t be unlearned.

And fear is one of them.

(It stays.)

(It doesn’t go away.)

But after the war ended, Obito never really had much reason to feel so afraid – at least, not overly so, and not with so much potency. Outside of missions, there were no immediate threats to his life, and although it felt like there was a noose slung around his neck with the Clan at the other end of the rope, he didn’t think it was getting any tighter. Or at least. …Not yet, anyway.

So what he means to say is – fuck Mission Assignment. Damn them all to hell.

Why – What –

Obito tries very hard not to hyperventilate as he looks into the bored yellow eyes of his new partner.

(Glossy black hair, sheet-pale skin and purple clan markings and there is no mistaking the Sannin even though this is the first time Obito’s ever come face-to-face with him.)

Orochimaru smiles, the barest quirk of thin lips that somehow manages to look sinister, and Obito wants to _bolt_.

Which is, oh, by the way, _completely_ _unreasonable_. He has no reason to freak out. But then _why_ is he having a panic attack now, when there is no whiff of blood in the air, no enemy oozing killing intent, no threat in sight?

( ** _Isn’t_** _there?_ A voice murmurs inside his head, low and soft and mocking.)

With it comes a fresh wave of panic, which proceeds to drown out every shred of logic that had been trying to reason with him.

His vision darkens around the edges like an old photograph, making the man in front of him come into sharp focus: vivid contrasts, black against white.

Orochimaru approaches leisurely, in slow measured steps.

There is something – terrifying – about this, about all of this, except his brain doesn’t seem to grasp anything beyond _ohgodno_.

Obito stands frozen, nearly vibrating with tension. The second stretches, to near agonizing lengths –

(fight, flight, he can’t _possibly_ win –)

He doesn’t realize he was holding his breath before a smooth, calm voice breaks through his thoughts.

“Uchiha Obito, jounin, correct?”

And Obito immediately snaps out of it. The horrible sensation of impending doom seems to fade.

But only slightly. There are tremors still in his bones, waiting, quivering like living things. Premonition, foreboding, death, death, death. He barely chokes out an answer.

“Yes, sir.”

His voice breaks slightly in the middle; hardly enough to notice, but Obito has the feeling that the man noticed anyway.

 

-

 

“I guess. That _is_ kind of weird.”

Obito blankly processes Shisui’s words before he remembers that answers need to be vocalized.

“It is?”

Shisui hums noncommittally before looking up at him.

“I guess? I mean, there’s no way Mission Assignment can _force_ a Sannin to do anything. Orochimaru-san must have connections in all sorts of places high up.”

…Sometimes Obito kind of forgets that Shisui grew up in the thick of Clan politics. Surely that’s not what a ten-year old should have to say about these things.

“Maybe he wanted to partner you,” Shisui says thoughtfully. Then he frowns. “Or maybe someone else wanted him to.”

“Maybe.” Obito echoes blankly.

It _was_ strange, when he had the time and peace of mind to actually think about it, pairing one of the Sannin with someone like him – a ninja who had made jounin barely a year ago. Even taking into consideration that Obito got kicked out of teams as frequently as other people tended to take out the trash…

Maybe he was just reading too much into things, but still. Besides, Shisui agrees that the arrangement seems slightly unnatural, and that it can’t have been an arbitrary plan for revenge on Mission Assignment’s part just because Obito gave them so many headaches.

… But then, maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he can do anything about it. There is no use worrying about pointless things; just better to stay on guard.

Obito presses down those thankless concerns like slipping stones into a pond – and then watches them sink. Down, down, down, until his mind is as smooth and calm as the surface of the water. It’s comparatively peaceful this way. Blank and flat and dreamlike.

He sits still and calm and blank, looking at nothing in particular. It almost feels like those rare peaceful moments back on the battlefield, when he used to pass the time staring into the campfire. But then he guesses there is a difference. On the field, he usually sat alone. Now, Shisui is lying on his stomach, spread out on the grass next to him, and Obito can hear his quiet, steady breathing, the sound of pen scratching on paper. Probably the mission report for the latest C-rank Shisui just told him about, before asking Obito if there was something on his mind.

And now that he stops to think about it, that suddenly makes Obito wonder just how observant Shisui really is. Obito might not be an expert at managing a poker face, but he knows that two years of near-isolation has almost frozen his face into perpetual blankness, and he can confidently say that he’s good enough to at least blank out any sort of discomfort from his expressions. Or anything that might be considered a weakness.

It comes with having to run into so many people when living in the Main Compound. It is vastly uncomfortable every morning. It isn’t a good idea to look weak in front of your social (and political) seniors, who already have more than enough reason to hate his guts.

( _Because you are a whore’s child._ )

( _Because you have always, always been the sore thumb, the black sheep._ )

( _Because you unlocked the Mangekyo and cannot even make use of it._ )

( _Because, ultimately, you are of no use to the Clan and its Elders._ )

(Shut. Up.)

Then the pen-on-paper sound stops in the background. Maybe Shisui’s done with his report.

“By the way, I was asking around,” Shisui starts, and then stops himself.

Obito blinks slowly, eyes sliding to Shisui. He looks like he’s looking for a way to phrase his words, like he thinks the subject might discomfort Obito.

“Umm…” Shisui peeks up at him for a second. Obito gives him a small nod. _Go on, I’m listening_.

Shisui looks down again. “Well, I was just wondering? Um, about your memory, Obito-nii, and.” He takes a breath. “Is it, like, _completely_ gone, or just… fuzzy?”

Obito says slowly, “It’s not… completely gone. I still remember how everything – the system inside the village – is supposed to work, I think. But. The people – and the details – and the specific memories… are a little. Hazy?” Obito fumbles around for a more suitable word. “Unreal?” He drops his eyes, because it feels so terribly uncomfortable talking about these things. Raw and bared and vulnerable. “And there are, I guess, things I might have completely forgotten,” he finishes haltingly. Something twists inside him, because it goes without saying that Shisui is one of the things he’s almost all-forgotten.

(Does that mean that he hadn’t used to care much about Shisui?)

(When now, he’s the only one who’s willing to stay with him?)

Maybe Obito should make more of an effort. To act more like who he was before.

(But how is he supposed to emulate what he has already forgotten?)

Obito pulls his knees up to his chest. Acceptance is not something to be taken for granted.

Especially in a situation like this, where just being seen talking together could put Shisui’s position within the Clan at risk…

Shisui said it was okay even if Obito didn’t remember him very well. But Obito can’t help feeling that he’s a poor replacement for the cousin Shisui’s lost. Lent out, broken into pieces, and then returned not-quite put back together. Without even an apology.

(It isn’t fair.)

( _What in life is **fair**?_ The voice sounds like it’s laughing at him. It’s getting more and more frequent. Obito wonders if he should worry about this.)

Shisui is silent, looking thoughtful and a little sad, absentmindedly clicking his pen.

Obito sets his chin on his arms, tightening them around his legs. His eyes fall downward.

It isn’t fair.

 

-

 

Here is the funniest thing: Obito isn’t sure if he should thank or curse Mission Assignment for his newest partner.

On one hand, that feeling of impending doom – that _dread_ – still hangs over Obito like a persistent itch, and while he still has no idea what about their first meeting triggered that panic attack, there is a sort of uneasiness in the air that the Snake Sannin carries, and it makes Obito tense _all the time_. Sometimes he gets the feeling that Orochimaru wants something from him, except he has no idea what. And that’s a ridiculous idea, because he has practically nothing a Sannin couldn’t get ahold of.

On the other hand, Orochimaru is the… friendliest partner he’s ever had after the war, which kind of threatens to break his brain if he thinks too hard about it. Of course, ‘friendly’ doesn’t mean that he’s being all smiles and closeness and cheer or anything. That would just be creepy.

They don’t talk when they don’t have to, they never invade each other’s personal space, they don’t know each other very well – but they have a working relationship. Orochimaru briefs Obito before the missions, Obito either goes back to pack again or just proceeds on depending on the kind of the mission they get, they complete the mission, they come back.

That’s it. Oh, and he hasn’t kicked Obito off the team yet, even though they’ve already reached the unlucky number four.

Orochimaru doesn’t look at him like he’s worried Obito might snap any second, doesn’t care when Obito forgoes sleep or food to stare into the fire during long-term missions, doesn’t glance warily at him when the leftover adrenaline from the bloodshed makes him twitch and jerk and fiddle with sharp things in his hands over and over and over. There are no side-eyed glances, no under-the-breath mutterings, which Obito hadn’t even realized he had gotten used to.

And why would he, when he’s probably strong enough to snap Obito’s neck like a matchstick without even the help of a convenient jutsu.

Not that Obito’s going to give him a reason to, of course.

Obito isn’t going to give anyone a reason.

 

-

 

Shisui brings the knife he’s been sharpening up to his eyes, squinting at the edge, so close that Obito feels that he should worry.

They’re sitting surrounded by various weaponry in a very convenient little meadow just the size for about two to three people, hidden within the forest surrounding the village – another one of Shisui’s hiding places. Obito idly wonders how many in total there are. Considering that the forest is still within Konoha borders, it’s a very nice, deserted place.

Shisui peers closely at the blade and frowns. “I did it the _exact_ _same_ _way_ you showed me, nii-san, why does it still look a little blunt?”

Obito goes on applying oil to the shuriken he’s holding, but lets his eyes flick over to Shisui’s handiwork. It looks pretty okay. He says just that, and watches Shisui glance skeptically at the pile Obito’s gone through, as if to emphasize his point.

“But the ones you did look almost _new_.”

Obito shrugs. Weapons care is one of the few things he can confidently say he’s good at. After all, he lived on the field for _two years_. Taking good care of weapons goes hand to hand with survival. Rather inevitable that he adjusted accordingly.

“I could do the rest of yours if you want.” Obito’s already finished with all of his anyway. It would feel much better to be some kind of help.

Shisui’s disgruntled expression fades. “We can do it together, nii-san,” he laughs. And stops. But a smile still remains on his face.

“I don’t think you’ve changed that much, you know.” He sounds a little wistful. “Even before, you were always helping out.”

Obito doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know what to say to that.

Shisui laughs and scratches his cheek, breaking the momentary silence. “Um, except that you’ve gotten quieter, nii-san. And calmer, too. A little like Itachi.”

Obito looks up again, grateful for the way out. He isn’t sure if it was intentional of Shisui. “Itachi?”

“Oh, don’t you know? He’s Mikoto-sama’s son… He’s six, now going to the Academy. I spend time with him sometimes.” He perks up. “Maybe you would like to meet him, nii-san. I’m sure Itachi will like you too.”

Obito kind of doubts the Clan will be thrilled about _that_. “Maybe someday,” he says agreeably.

 

-

 

Spring is bringing back Fire Country’s typical warm weather. It’s nice out, so Obito gets out early to wait at the entrance to Training Ground 44, which is the usual meeting point for him and Orochimaru.

(It’s the entrance to the Forest of Death. Whatever, better there than that mausoleum of a Main Compound.)

While he waits, he usually passes the time and keeps his hands busy checking if his knives are well-oiled. They always are. There’s only so much he can do when he wakes up at night, and he has lots of free time with nothing much to do. And Shisui is a chunin and has his own life.

It’s not so bad.

Rin’s there most of the time, and she isn’t going to leave.

(He _hopes_ she won’t leave.)

“If you are attempting to bore a hole through the steel with only your eyes, Obito-kun, I wish you luck, but I do not think that even the Sharingan is capable of a feat like that yet.”

Obito tenses – he does not _flinch_ – but only slightly, and looks up to an approaching Orochimaru in all his usual bored-looking glory.

Obito doesn’t give an answer beyond giving the knife one last check and tucking it into its sheath, then stands up for the coming briefing. Orochimaru, as always, doesn’t even bat an eye. But as he unrolls the mission scroll, his lips seem to curve up into a brief, satisfied smile, and he pauses to ask Obito a question.

“Am I correct in assuming that the highest ranked missions you’ve been on were As, Obito-kun?”

Obito wonders where this is going. And since wartime missions never actually specified ranks… “Yes…?”

“Congratulations, then.” Orochimaru’s smile broadens, but it doesn’t ever reach his eyes. “Your first S-rank.”

 

-

 

In Obito’s opinion, attack missions are relatively shittier than defense (even though they _both_ suck), mostly because it means you’re on enemy territory. It means that you have to strike quickly and make it out double-quick, because it’s like shouting _I’m right here! Please come kill me!_ when the attack goes in. Well, mostly, they have plans in place to avoid detection, but it’s not like the other side aren’t made up of shinobi either. Nine in ten, attack missions end up with enemies on your tails. At least assassinations are quiet and stealthy and less likely to get caught. Attack missions are loud and messy and horribly bloody.

“But _why_ are we attacking Kiri?” Obito pants, thoughts given voice in the fizz of adrenaline before he can think it through, and tries to control the Katon jutsu to set fire to _all_ five of his enemies, not just three.

And Orochimaru replies in a steady, almost-bored drawl that sounds nothing like a man who is snapping another woman’s neck, “Because Konoha is _not_ a wimpy pushover, contrary to the opinions of some idiots regarding the pacifist image the village tends to stick to, and we give as good as we get.”

Rather surprised about the fact that he was graced with an answer, Obito drops down to the ground to let a Fuuton pass over his head, then kicks out the Kiri-nin’s legs from below. “So the border attacks were from Kiri?” And then a lunge, and a quick stab to the carotid artery lets out a spurt of blood that spatters all over his arms and face.

“And Kumo,” Orochimaru agrees, mild as milk, “at least, so say the ones T&I has – ah, persuaded, to talk.”

A woman lets out a wordless, animalistic scream. “You motherfucking tree-huggers, my _son_ has not returned from your borders, you –”

Orochimaru’s kunai lands perfectly in the unprotected hollow of her throat, and her words are broken off with a wet sort of gurgle. She was the last one standing, and the sound is eerily loud in the sudden silence before she sways – eyes shocked wide with helpless anger and grief – and falls to the ground.

Obito sees the whole thing in slow motion, courtesy of the Sharingan. He might be feeling something about this. Later. When this scene, too, inevitably ends up in a nightmare.

But right now there is just an empty sort of daze in his head, and a loose, trembling sort of heat in his muscles from the leftover hormones.

Blood and pain and violence are simple and clear and real. Missions are real. …Emotions, too, are real.

Everything real hurts.

(But emotions are also conflicting and complicated, and now is not the time for them. First and foremost on the field is survival.)

“Kiri and Kumo,” Obito repeats, “but not Iwa or Suna? I thought Iwa hated our guts.”

Orochimaru hums, surveying the bodies with a keen eye. “Suna is having trouble just keeping itself in one piece, especially with the sudden disappearance of the Sandaime Kazekage,” he replies, still surprisingly generous with his information, “and there is a peace negotiation going on with Iwa, so unless they are not complete _idiots_ , they would have the sense not to attack Konoha for now.”

Strangely, the last part seems to etch itself into Obito’s brain.

“There is a peace negotiation going on with _Iwa_?” he hears himself say, unbidden, a stranger’s voice, cold and flat with an edge of incredulity.

And he can still smell the cool damp scent of moss of the Kusa cave, remembers the smell of Rin’s blood in the air, a fragile voice whispering _Don’t leave me_ , and something in his voice must have caught Orochimaru’s attention because he pauses momentarily before straightening up to look right at Obito.

But Obito doesn’t notice the way Orochimaru’s eyes seem to lose all traces of boredom for the very first time, the way his piercing yellow gaze zeroes in on him with focused, calculating intensity. He is suspended in time, caught between the past and the present.

“Yes,” Orochimaru says, “there is.” His eyes don’t leave Obito’s face, unblinking, keen and focused. It’s the reason he almost misses the blur of motion rising behind Obito – but a split second before Orochimaru’s eyes dart towards the sudden movement, Obito sets a foot back and _twists_ around in one smooth movement as if in response to some primal, instinctive call.

There is a strange, detached crystal clarity about the moment.

The three Kiri nin leaping out of ambush are all wearing three identical looks of hardened determination, but Obito catches a glimpse of leering grins and Iwa headbands, like see-through images superimposed over reality, and it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Nothing mattered – and the Sharingan shows him, like it has a mind of its own, the exact moment three bodies come into alignment.

A single, eerily graceful sweep of a sword, and there are three headless corpses falling to their knees. Three near-identical sprays of bright red arterial blood, droplets falling like jewels, catching the light refracted from the mist.

Obito shakes off the blood flowing in rivulets down the blade, a long-practiced motion, and takes a step forward. His mind is still oddly cold and calm and focused, even when there is a wave – an ocean – of _something_ – built inside his chest, threatening to crash.

(down, down, down)

And now. He has to find Rin.

He has to… ?

“ _Impressive_ ,” someone whispers, suddenly _right_ _behind_ him, and Obito startles violently as the moment falls apart. He jerks _away_ , lashing out blindly, but the man smoothly sidesteps the blow and grabs Obito’s arm, fingers digging into a pressure point that makes him lose his grip. The sword falls with a ringing clang.

But there is a kunai in his pouch anyway, and it’s already in his hand, and he can see –

Just before Obito can full-out panic, though, the man sidles back, about as sinuous and boneless as a snake, and holds his hands open in mock surrender.

“No harm done,” Orochimaru says, in a voice as smooth as poisoned honey, and smiles, showing sharp white teeth.

But his eyes are gleaming bright with interest, and an awful sense of foreboding washes over Obito.

 

-

 

There are two types of exhaustion: physical and mental. And of the two, Obito very much prefers the former. It’s the kind of exhaustion that sticks to him on mission days: limbs like lead and muscle pains, the stings from various scrapes and cuts and bruises slamming in at once after the adrenaline rushes out. It’s the kind of exhaustion that makes him fall into bed (or on the floor) and sleep like the dead, the kind that gives sleep without dreams.

But the other kind of exhaustion… comes from memories. And nightmares.

Obito has a headache. His eyes feel like sandpaper. He is so very tired.

( _My **son**_ )

That woman. She’d looked like the squad leader, and she’d nearly been in her… forties? Fifties?

( _has not returned from your borders_ )

It’s hard to say with shinobi. It would put her son’s age at maybe his teens to his twenties.

( _you –_ )

Obito wonders if her son was one of the people he ran into during one of his border patrol missions. He wonders if he was the one to kill him, or wound him, or tie him up and toss him to T&I.

He isn’t sure. He shuffles through the Sharingan-clear memories to find a trace of familial resemblance, a clue…

When he finds her son, maybe this nightmare will stop.

 _And be replaced with other ones?_ The voice is back and it is laughing at him _again_.

(please)

(shut)

(up)

He refuses to believe that it’s only getting clearer with each passing day.

Obito closes his eyes.

( _My **son**_ )

And he comes back to the thought that has been nagging at him.

(If all families care so much for each other)

(If mothers really loved their sons)

(What about his _own_ – )

 _I still shudder to think what would have happened if the whore had not contacted us first in a blackmail attempt_ , Matou’s voice snaps like a whip even in his memory, and Obito flinches.

There’s bile at the back of his throat, and _it hurts_ and this is why Obito should keep his thoughts drowned like pebbles at the bottom of a lake, where they are safe and _cannot hurt him_. He pushes them down, _down_ , under the surface, and then when it’s gone his mouth tastes like ashes. Sensory memory leftovers from the battlefield. Like souvenirs. _Congratulations, you survived_. Obito pushes his hair out of his eyes, and his hand is cold and sweaty and trembling slightly.

He hates the minefield his thoughts have become, and he hates the way exhaustion makes him drift into dangerous territory without even noticing.

Shisui bumps his shoulder from where he’s been sitting beside Obito. “Is something wrong?” he asks. He must have finished his mission report. Just a few minutes ago he was wondering out loud if it would be better to leave out the part where one of his teammates caught a gigantic boar with her traps because it wasn’t technically relevant to the mission.

“Nightmare,” Obito says, and is surprised by the way his voice rasps. His temples throb dully.

Shisui gazes solemnly at him. He looks a little worried. “You’re not overusing your Sharingan on your missions, are you, nii-san? I mean, the Elders must have drilled the precautions into you when you activated your eyes…”

Precautions? Obito blinks owlishly, because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t gotten a crash course on Sharingan 101… well, ever. “Um… they haven’t?” His voice trails up like a question.

Shisui goes still.

“They _didn’t_ ,” he says, very quietly, and somehow he sounds a bit like a volcano threatening to erupt. “Did they?”

Obito tilts his head, and cautiously, “I remember being kept alone in a dark room for about two to three days? …And then Fugaku-sama told me I was to serve on the front lines.”

A muscle tics in Shisui’s jaw, and he turns away, obviously trying to school his expression. “And let me guess, you’ve been activating your eyes only for battle, for, two years now. And no one bothered to _tell you anything_.” He sounds forcibly calm, with something boiling beneath the surface.

Obito, again, answers carefully. “…Yes.”

Shisui hurls a rock against the cliff face – they’re sitting in front of something like a cross between a small cave and a crevice in the lower side of the Hokage Mountain, hidden by a jutting outcropping of rocks that hides the opening from the village but gives them a great vantage point – and it ricochets off hard, tumbling down the slope and bouncing several times off the ground before losing impetus.

“They shouldn’t have _done that_.”

Obito has never heard Shisui so helplessly angry. But he doesn’t see why this is such an important matter. He isn’t going blind or anything.

“My eyes are fine, Shisui.”

“Yes,” Shisui says bitterly, voice choked with tears, “but _you_ aren’t.”

 

-

 

“The Sharingan,” Shisui explains, “basically overclocks the brain, starting with the eyes and then the visual cortex, forcibly stimulating the nerves and chakra pathways with chakra to process excess information at a faster speed. And then the chakra leaves – imprints, I guess? – on the brain. Hence the eidetic memory.”

Obito nods, peering down at the surprisingly well-drawn diagram of the brain Shisui’s scratched into the sand. Shisui’s still scowling. It’s the first time Obito’s ever seen him so. …Resentful?

“And the chakra levels in the brain… get, kind of higher than normal, compared to most people, but usually it doesn’t have any negative effects other than strengthened emotions and a tendency to be a tiny bit more impulsive.” Shisui’s scowl, surprisingly, deepens. “But the _most important_ part is the _memory_.”

Shisui moodily stabs the stick into the ground next to his diagram. “The human brain is adaptive,” he says. “It eventually gets used to the clarity of the new memories. The old memories, in comparison, seem faded. Hazy and inaccurate.”

Obito thinks he sees what Shisui’s getting to. “You think I’m having trouble remembering because of this.”

Shisui presses his lips together into a straight, hard line. Obito takes another peek at the set of Shisui’s jaw, and scoots over to awkwardly sling an arm around Shisui’s shoulders. “You don’t have to… I don’t know, feel so bad. You figured out the problem already, no?” Obito hopes his voice comes off as something close to soothing and encouraging. “Now you’ll just have to figure out how to fix it.” He gives Shisui a small shake. “You’re the esteemed genius; I know you’ll find a way.”

Shisui opens his mouth as if to say something, but just blows out a huge breath, his shoulders drooping. He turns and buries his face in Obito’s shoulder.

And Obito realizes that Shisui’s warm. He’s ten and alive and breathing, and he’s so warm Obito suddenly wants to cry. He leans a cheek against Shisui’s tousled black curls and wraps his other arm around the boy in a careful hug.

“It’s supposed to be the first thing they tell you, though. That you shouldn’t let your eyes fill your mind only with death. You’re supposed to see what’s precious to you first, to keep close to the heart when it becomes too much.”

So that’s why all the younger kids seem to have their Sharingan active at unnecessary times – not to flaunt them, but to commit to memory everything they wish to remember. To treasure.

“So they shouldn’t have done that,” Shisui mumbles into Obito’s shoulder, breaths hitching. “It’s like they didn’t want you to come back.”

Ah, Obito thinks. Maybe they didn’t. But he doesn’t say it out loud. He tightens his arms and ignores the wetness seeping into his shoulder as Shisui hugs him back.

It doesn’t really matter, actually. What’s happened has happened, and Obito just has to face what’s in front of him now. It hurts to care.

Shisui makes him want to care, though.

Obito’s eyes sting. It hurts, in the hollowness behind his sternum.

 

-

 

“By the way, Obito-nii.” Shisui’s voice is almost back to normal now, even if he’s still sniffling occasionally. “Did you know that this month’s Clan Meeting’s nearly here?”

Obito stiffens. “…Do you think I _have_ to go?”

“Attendance is mandatory, actually.” Shisui smiles, wry, and it’s an expression that looks too old for his young face. “And the Clan probably informs the Missions Department every month, so that all the members are in the village.”

“Oh. I guess that explains why I got nearly two weeks off.” Obito thinks back to the mission debrief, and the disgruntled expression of the desk shinobi that led him and Orochimaru out of the Hokage’s office after that was over.

Shisui shrugs. “Maybe. I think that’s another reason some people don’t like our family. Saying we only think about ourselves.”

“But that’s not entirely untrue.” Obito leans back heavily on the large boulder behind him. Beside him, Shisui mirrors his position.

“You’re right,” Shisui murmurs softly. Then he changes the subject. “But I’ll be glad if you’re there, nii-san, even if we’re not supposed to talk to each other. At least I’ll know I have someone I can trust while I play the good little clan prodigy.”

…Play the good little clan prodigy?

“I didn’t know you had to play that part,” Obito ventures carefully.

Shisui laughs, but his voice is sour as he replies. “There are so many family branches who want me as their poster boy. I need a _lot_ of creativity to turn them down without actually saying no.”

Obito doesn’t say anything, but he reaches down hesitantly, laying his hand on top of Shisui’s. Shisui just drops his head. Obito thinks he saw the boy’s face crumple. And he’s only ten. He shouldn’t be so caught up in the dogfight of clan politics.

So, even though he isn’t sure he’s even in the position to say these things… “You know you can always tell me, well, whatever, right? I’ll always be here.”

Shisui smiles, only a little bit watery. “Thanks, nii-san.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARRRRRRRGGGHHH. My LIFE is interfering with my happiness, I swear. Why does real life insist on dropping (figurative) bombs on top of my head?
> 
> *sighs* Well, enough of my complaints... I had some trouble the whole time I was writing and wrapping up this chapter. Even though I was really looking forward to working on it. Sad fact of life: the things that you look forward to don't actually turn out to be as beautiful as they seemed to be. I'm still not so sure if this chapter really came out like I wanted it to. 
> 
> Even so, I hope you can spare a moment of your day to tell me, if you enjoyed the chapter! Your comments always brighten my mood more than you can imagine. :)


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